R  E  li  £  C  C  A; 


ort, 


I 

I'VliE    F1LLE    DE    CHAMBSE. 


A    NOYUL. 


BY     >1  It  S      U  O  \V  SON. 


r:i:uD  asihbu-.v.v  ;  »tti«ic. 


iiosTo :\ 

HUNTED    Von   THE    UUGKSELLERS. 

133-2. 


IN    MEMORY    OF 

ALFRED    HENRY  HERSEY 

Gift  of  Maiy  H  Hcrsey  who  died 

Dece?nber  IS,  1941  in  her 

ninety- ninth  year 


ZXS 


^.i 


s>< 


.'••* 


PROPOSALS  FOR  PRINTING  BY  SUBSCRIPTION 

AN  ORIGINAL  NOVEL, 

IN  four  volumes,  duod«cimo,  dedicated,  by  oermiiiion,  to 
Mrs.  Bingham,  entitled,  TRIALS  OF  THE  HUMAN 
HEART,  By  Mis.  Rowlon,  of  the  New  Theatre,  Phila- 
delphia, author  of  Victoria,  It»QjnsxT.o*,  Chaelotti, 
Fille  de  Chambre,  Sec. Sic. 

<< i    . If  there's  a  power  above  us, 

M  (And  that  there  is,  all  nature  cries  aloud 

"  Thro'  ailher  works),  he  muit  delight  in  virtue  j 

•«  And  thatwhieh  he  delights  in,  mult  bd  happy." 

"  The  foul,  fecur'd  in  Ker  exiftence,  fmilffS 
"  At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  deSes  its  point." 

COUD1T10NS-. 

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*#*  Subfcriptions  are  received  by  the  author,  the  corner 
cf  Seventh  and  Chefnut-ftreets,  Meflrs.  Carey,  Rice,  and 
.D;>bfon,  Philadelphia;  Mr.  Green,  Annapolis;  Meilrs. 
Allen,  Berry,  and  S.  Campbell,  New- York  ;  Mefi'rs.  "Weft, 
Thomas  and  Andrews,  Blake,  and  Larkrn,  Bofton  ;  Mr. 
Hafwell,  Verm  nt  ;  Meffrs.  Rice,  and  Edwards,  Balti- 
more ;   Mr.  W.  P.  Young, Charleiron. 

f^p  Mrs.    Rowfon  begs  leave  to  inform  her  friends   ZTft 
the  public  in  general,  that  on  account  of  ths  heavy  ejrpcike 
attending  the  publication  of  this  woik,  it  rannotbe"  fetir  tj> 
the  prefs  till  fhe  has  obtained  300  fuWcribcrs. 
'  April 26.4 2<f  <h  4tratr. 


A  NEW  NOVEL. 
TO  THS  LADIES  OF  PHILADELPHIA. 
THIS  DAY  IS  PUBLISHED  BY 

MATTHEW   CAREY, 

j      .  No.  n8,  Mabrtt-stheet, 

,  Price,  bound,    e-8ihs  of  a  dollar,   fewed  in  mar  We  paper, 
half  a  dollar, 
/""CHARLOTTE.     A  tale  of  truth.     In   two  vols.     By 
V^J    M«.  Rowfon,  of  the  New  Theatre,  Philadelphia,  au- 
thor of  Victoria,  the  Inquiiitor,  the  Fille  deChambre,  Are. 
Of  Charlotte,  the  Reviewers  have  given  the  follow- 
ing characler  :— It  may  be  a  Tale  of  truth,  for  it  is  not  un- 
rjituraU   and  it  is  a  tale  of  real  dillrefs,  Chailctte,  by  the  ar- 
tifice of  a  teacher,  recommended  to  a  fchool,  from  humani- 
ty rather  than  a  conviction  cf  her  integrity,  or  the  regulari-  1 
ty  of  her  former  conduct,  is   enticed    from    her  governefs,. 
and  accompanies  a  young  officer  to  America.     The  marri- 
age ceremony,  if  not  forgotten,   is  poftponed,  and  Charlotte 
dies  a  martyr  to  the  inconftmcy  cf  her  lover,    anj  treachery 
of  his  friend.     The  fituations  are  artlefs  and  affecling  ;  the 
deicriptions  natural  and  pathetic.    We  fhuulcl  feel  for  Char 
lotte  it   fuch  a  pa-fun  everexifted,  who  for  one  e.ror  f>arce  • 
ly,  perhaps,  defcrved  fo  fever'e  a  puniihment:     If  it  is  a  fic- 
tion, poetic  juftice  is  not,  we  think,  'propeiiy  diftributed. 
SAIi)  CAREY  HAS  JUST  PUBLISHED, 
A  TWO  SHEET  MAP    OF    KENTUCKY,      com- 
piled r>y,  Elihu  Barker.     Price  i  dot.  and  %-%U, 

WAR  ATLAS,  containing  maps  of  France,   Germany, 
Spain,  Italy,  rtr-  United  Provinces,  the   Netherlands,  and 
the  Weft-Indies.     Price,  z  dollars. 
Map  of  Ne.v-Jtrfey.     .Half  a  dollar, 
Maps  of  Vermont,  Connecticut,  Delaware,  Georgia  — • 
price  3  8ths  of  a  dollar. 

May  '•  173*4-.  eodtf. 


'73t- 


A  NEW  NOVEL. 

T^HIS  DAY  IS  PUBLISHED,    (price  5/. 
neatly  bound),  by  H.  &  P.  RICE,  Book- 
fellers,  No.  50,  Market-itreet, 

The  FILLE  DE  CHAMBRE, 

A  novel,  by  Mrs.  liowfon,  or'thc  New  Theatre, 
Philadelphia,  author  of  Charlotte,  the  Inqui- 
litor,  Victoria,  &c.  Sec. 

The  higheft  Wifh  I  ever  formed  has  been, 
Juft  co  be  phe'et  above  the  reach  of  want, 
In  the  bleft  medium  between  ihining  ftate 
And  the  hard  griping  hand  of  penary. 
Enough  for  this,  and  if  I  have  t?>  lpare 
A  little  for  my  tuff 'ring  feilow-creatures, 
1  (hall  have  reached  the  hiighr  of'  my  ambition. 
H.  &  P.  Rice  have  jo.it  opened,  a  very  capital    cclLctiDn 
of  Book-,  imported  in  the  fhip  Therefa  from  London. 
Auguft  I.  1J>Qt±.  v^w^a- 


REBECCA, 

OR     THE 

FILLE    DE    CIIAMBRE 

A    NOVEL, 
BY  Mrs  ROWSON 


The  highest  wish  I  ever  form'd  has  been, 
Just  to  be  plttc'd  above  the  reach  of  want, 
In  the  blest  medium  between  shining  state, 
And  the  hard  griping  hand  of  penury. 
Enough  for  this,  and,  if  I  have  to  spare 
A  little  for  my  sufPring  fellow  creatures, 
I  shall  have  reach'd.the  height  of  my  ambition. 


Third  American  edition. 


BOSTON. 

PRINTED    TOR   THE    BOOKSELLERS- 
]S31. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2010  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


http://www.archive.org/details/rebeccaorfilledeOOrows 


^yo    ^-i 


REBECCA, 

OR  THE 

EILLE  DE  CHAMBRE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

'  But  who  knows,  my  dear  father,'  cried 
Rebecca  Littleton,  laying  her  hand  on  that 
of  her  father,  '  who  knows  but  something 
yet  may  be  done  to  reward  a  veteran  grown 
gray  in  his  country's  service?' 

'I  hope  there  will,  my  child,'  said  Mr  Lit- 
tleton ;  '  and  if  there  is  not  we  must  be  con- 
tent, for  his  majesty  cannot  provide  for  all. 
I  wish,  my  girl,  it  was  in  my  power  to  con- 
vince him  that  I  am  still  willing  to  fight  for 
him,  though  the  bread  I  eat  from  his  bounty 
is  but  brown  :  but  this  poor  stump,'  looking 
at  all  that  remained  of  his  right  arm,  'and 
this  disabled  leg,'  stretching  it  out  as  well 
as  he  could, '  all  my  fighting  days  are  over; 
I  can  only  talk  now,  child.' 

'  But  you  have  fought  bravely  once,'  said 
Mrs  'Littleton,  while  a  beam  of  exultation 
darted  from  her  eyes. 


4  REBECCA. 

1  And  after  all,'  cried  Rebecca,  l  it  is  hard 
to  be  distressed  for  fifteen  pounds.' 

It  was  a  clear  frosty  evening,  in  the  be- 
ginning of  January,  when,  in  a  little  cottage, 
on  the  seacoast  of  Lincolnshire,  Mr  Little- 
ton, an  old  superannuated  lieutenant  in  the 
army,  his  wife,  daughter,  and  two  or  three 
neighbors,  were  comfortably  seated  round 
a  cheerful  fire.  The  brown  jug  was  just  re- 
plenished, by  the  fair  hands  of  Rebecca,  and 
the  song,  the  joke,  and  the  tale  went  cheer- 
fully round,  when  an  unwelcome  though  not 
unexpected  visiter,  made  his  appearance, 
and  threw  a  damp  over  their  harmless  mirth. 

This  was  no  other  than  their  landlord's 
steward,  who  came  to  demand  the  rent,  in 
paying  which  they  had  been,  from  various 
disagreeable  reasons,  more  backward  than 
usual ;  it  amounted  to  fifteen  pounds,  and 
the  poor  old  man  had  no  method  whatever 
to  raise  the  money.  He  had  often  made  his 
distresses  known  to  people  in  power,  who 
had  once  styled  themselves  his  friends,  but 
never  received  any  more  than  promises  that 
something  should  be  clone ;  and  hope  had 
so  often  deceived  him,  that  he  now  ceased 
to  listen  to  her  flattering  voice,  and  was  sink- 
ing into  despondency,  when  the  lovely  Re- 
becca cheered  him  with  the  sentence  at  the 
beginning  of  the  chapter. 

Rebecca  was  the  youngest  of  seven  chil- 
dren, and   the  only  one  who  lived  to  years 


REBECCA.  -5 

of  maturity.  She  was  at  this  time  just  six- 
teen, and  had  combined  in  her  person  all 
the  beauty  of  a  Venus,  with  the  simplicity 
of  a  Grace.  She  possessed  a  striking  figure, 
just  tall  enough  to  be  elegant;  her  shape 
was  symmetry,  and  her  countenance  one  of 
those  which  may  safely  be  pronounced  more 
than  beautiful ;  for,  to  the  softest  blue  eyes, 
flaxen  hair,  and  a  complexion  that  outvied 
the  lilies,  was  added  such  an  inexpressible 
look  of  benevolence  and  candor,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  see  and  not  to  love  her.  She 
had  been  taught  by  her  father  to  read  and 
write  her  own  language  correctly ;  by  her 
mother  some  little  knowledge  of  the  French, 
and  by  the  vicar's  lady  who  was  extremely 
fond  of  her,  she  had  learned  to  play,  with  a 
considerable  degree  of  taste,  on  the  guitar; 
but  being  educated  entirely  in  a  domestic 
way,  and  never  having  past  the  boundaries 
of  her  native  village,  except  once  or  twice 
to  a  neighboring  fair,  there  was  about  her 
such  an  air  of  timidity,  that,  by  the  unob- 
serving,  might  be  mistaken  for  rustic  bash- 
fulness. 

Though  considered  by  her  }roung  com- 
panions as  the  belle  of  the  village,  in  her  own 
opinion  she  was  ever  the  meanest,  the  least 
worth}'  of  notice  of  any.  Brought  up  in  the 
strictest  notions  of  the  Protestant  religion, 
such  universal  charity  pervaded  her  soul, 
that  she  never  suspected  the  worth  and  in- 
1* 


6  REBECCA. 

tegrity  of  her  fellow  creatures  ;  but  implicit- 
ly believed  that  every  one,  who  professed 
to  love  or  esteem  her,  spoke  the  genuine 
feelings  of  their  hearts. 

She  harbored  no  thoughts  which  fear  or 
shame  prevented  her  revealing,  for  this  rea- 
son, her  actions  and  sentiments,  were  often 
open  to  the  malevolent  misconstructions  of 
those,  who,  having  art  enough  to  conceal  the 
real  impulse  of  their  natures,  assume  the 
semblance  of  those  virtues,  the  reality  of 
which  is  possessed  only  by  the  genuine  chil- 
dren of  simplicity. 

In  giving  the  character  of  Mr  Littleton, 
we  require  but  few  words;  he  was  honest, 
possessed  of  valor,  good  sense,  and  a  liberal 
education. 

Mrs  Littleton  was  twenty  years  younger 
than  her  husband,  and  was,  when  he  mar- 
ried her,  remarkably  beautiful.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  an  exciseman,  and  at  a  coun- 
try boarding  school  picked  up  a  few  showy 
accomplishments,  but  her  mind  had  been  to- 
tally neglected  ;  her  sentiments  were  there- 
fore narrow  and  illiberal,  and  she  possessed 
that  kind  of  worldly  knowledge,  which  ren- 
dered her  suspicious  of  the  integrity  of  ev- 
ery human  being. 

The  little  knowledge  Rebecca  possessed 
of  mankind,  she  had  gleaned  from  a  small 
but  not  ill  furnished  circulating  library,  to 
which,  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  sub- 


REBECCA.  7 

scribed.  Her  mind  was  highly  tinctured 
with  the  romantic,  but  withal  was  enlight- 
ened with  such  a  sense  of  honor,  virtue  and 
Eiety,  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  lead 
er  to  a  wrong  action  ;  yet  there  were  times 
when  the  fortitude  of  Rebecca  was  vulner- 
able. .  She  could  stand  unmoved  in  a  right 
cause  against  entreaty,  persuasion,  and  even 
the  severest  threats;  but  she  was  not  proof 
against  the  shafts  of  ridicule. 

We  have  said  that  Mrs  Littleton  had  been 
handsome;  indeed  she  was  so  still,  being  at 
this  period  about  forty-seven  years  old  ;  for 
piercing  black  eyes,  chestnut  hair,  and  a  flor- 
id complexion,  gave  her  greatly  the  look  of 
youth.  This  juvenile  appearance  of  her 
mother  was  a  great  misfortune  to  Rebecca, 
for  Mrs  Littleton  was  ever  more  pleased  with 
being  told  she  looked  like  her  eldest  sister 
than  being  complimented  with  being  the 
mother  of  so  lovely  a  young  woman;  indeed 
she  considered  every  compliment  paid  to 
her  daughter  as  derogating  something  from 
her  own  merit.  She  considered  her  more  as 
a  rival  than  a  child,  and  was  happy  in  every 
opportunity  to  ridicule  the  feelings  of  a  heart, 
of  whose  intrinsic  worth  she  had  no  idea. 

Rebecca  could  not  sometimes  help  feeling 
the  unkindness  of  her  mother;  but  whatev- 
er thosefeelings  were  she  suffered  in  silence  ; 
no  complaint  ever  escaped  her  lips,  but  she 
endeavored,  by  the  mildest  acquiescence  in 


8  REBECCA. 

her  every  wish,  to  conciliate  that  affection 
which  she  would  have  considered  as  her 
greatest  comfort. 

'  It  is  hard,  indeed,  to  be  so  distressed  for 
fifteen  pounds,'  said  Rebecca  :  '  1  wish  I 
could  hit  on  any  plan,  by  which  my  dear 
father  might  be  relieved  from  his  embarrass- 
ment. I  have  a  great  mind,  if  you  will  give 
me  leave,  to  go  tomorrow  morning  to  lady 
Mary  Worthy;  I  saw  her  last  week  at  the 
vicar's,  when  she  asked  me  to  come  and  see 
her,  and  said  she  would  be  happy  to  render 
me  any  service  in  her  power.' 

'  And  do  you  really  think  she  meant  what 
she  said?'  cried  Mrs  Littleton. 

'To  be  sure  1  do,'  replied  Rebecca. 

'  Then  you  are  a  fool,'  retorted  the  moth- 
er, 'not  to  take  it  as  it  was  designed,  a  mere 
compliment,  which,  she  paid  in  respect  to 
Mrs  Alton,  who,  she  saw,  was  rather  partial 
to  you.' 

'  Dear  mamma,'  said  Rebecca,  in  an  ac- 
cent of  surprise,  'how  can  you  think  so? — 
There  was  no  necessity  for  her  to  ask  me,  if 
she  had  not  wished  me  to  come,  for,  you 
know  1  am  greatly  her  inferior.' 

'Don't  talk  so  silly,  child  !  Do  you  sup- 
pose 1  wish  every  body  to  come  to  my  house 
whom  politeness  obliges  me  to  ask?' 

'  I  can  only  say,  mamma,  that  1  would  nev- 
er ask  any  person  whom  I  would  not  be  real- 
ly glad  to  see  when  they  came.' 


REBECCA.  9 

•  I  think,  my  dear,'  said  Mr  Littleton  ('  tho' 
1  have  the  greatest  respect  imaginable  for 
your  opinion)  that  it  would  not  be  amiss  for 
Rebecca  to  go  to  lady  Mary;  when  she 
knows  our  situation  she  may  be  prevailed 
upon  to  request  her  son,  sir  George,  to  wait 
till  we  can  make  up  the  sum  ;  1  will,  in  the 
mean  time,  write  to  my  old  friend  iord  An- 
trim, perhaps  he  may  get  my  small  pension 
enlarged." 

Mrs  Littleton  remained  silent,  and  it  was 
agreed  between  Rebecca  and  her  father, 
t.hat  the  next  morning  she  should  visit  Aud- 
ley-Park. 

At  twelve  o'clock,  next  morning,  the  love- 
ly Rebecca,  habited  in  a  plain  white  jacket, 
a  straw  hat,  and  black  cardinal,  sat  out  for 
Audley-Park. 

Lady  Mary  was  alone  in  the  library  when 
she  arrived,  and,  on  the  servant's  announc- 
ing her  name,  desired  her  to  be  immediately 
shown  up. 

'  Now  this  is  really  kind,'  said  she,  with 
the  most  condescending  smile,  advancing  to 
the  blushing  Rebecca,  and  taking  her  hand, 
led  her  to  the  sofa  on  which  she  had  been 
sitting,  and  seated  herself  by  her  side:  '1 
Hatter  myself  you  are  come  to  spend  the 
day  with  me.1 

•  Indeed,  madam,'  replied  Rebecca,  '  J 
was  not  so  presuming  as  to  hope  for  such 
an  honor  :  1  came  to  request — to  entreat" — 


1 0  REBECCA. 

she  faltered — the  tears  started  in  her  eye.-? 
— lady  Mary  interrupted  her. 

'  Speak  out,  my  love  ;  do  not  be  alarmed, 
but  rest  assured,  I  am  ready  to  grant  you 
any  favor  within  the  limits  of  my  power.' 

'  You  are  very  good,  madam  ;  I  hope  you 
will  pardon  the  liberty  I  have  taken  ;  but 
my  father,  madam — his  income  is  but  small 
— we  are  a  twelvemonth  in  arrears  in  our 
rent — if  you  will  kindly  use  your  interest 
with  sir  George  in  our  behalf — ' 

'  Surely,  my  dear,  your  agitation  is  un- 
necessary; I  dare  say  my  son  has  never 
thought  of  the  rent.' 

'No,  madam,  1  do  not  suppose  he  has,  it 
is  so  trifling;  but  Mr  Villars,  his  steward, 
asked  for  it  last  night,  and  was  very  angry.' 

'  Indeed!'  said  her  ladyship,  'was  he  an- 

gry  r 

'  1  do  not  mean  to  complain  of  Mr  Y  illars, 
madam,  for  he  has  been  very  good  to  us, 
and  often  h;is  waited  a  month  or  two  for  his 
money.  You  know,  madam,  he  is  only  do- 
ing his  duty  when  he  demands  it;  for  was 
he  remiss  in  collecting  the  rents,  sir  George 
would  certainly  be  offended  with  him.1 

Lady  Mary  smiled  at  the  eager  manner 
in  which  Rebecca  uttered  this  apology  for 
Villars  ;  but  it  was  a  smile  of  the  utmost 
satisfaction,  it  convinced  her  of  the  goodness 
of  her  young  vister's  heart. 

'I  think,'  said  she,  'if  some  friend  could 


REBECCA.  1 1 

be  found  who  would  advance  this  sum  for 
your  father — ' 

'  Alas  !  madam,  how  is  it  to  be  repaid  ? — 
unless,  indeed,' — hesitating,  blushing,  and 
rising  from  her  seat. 

4  Unless  what,  my  sweet  girl  ?' 

1  Your  ladyship  would  generously  lend 
me  the  money,  and  take  me  into  your  ser- 
vice, that  I  might  render  myself  useful  till  it 
is  repaid;  or,  if  you  think  me  too  presum- 
ing, madam,  perhaps,  you  could  recommend 
me  to  a  family  where  there  are  children. — 
I  am  not,  it  is  true,  accustomed  to  servitude, 
but  I  will  exert  my  poor  abilities  cheerfully, 
and  hope  my  willingness  to  oblige,  will,  in 
some  measure,  compensate  for  my  awkward- 
ness.' 

'  You  are  too  good,  and  too  lovely,'  said 
lady  Mary,  '  for  a  servant ;  but  you  shall, 
if  you  please,  come  and  live  with  me.  I  will 
settle  this  little  difficulty  of  your  father's, 
and  shall  think  myself  obliged  if  you  will 
accept  a  trifle  annually  for  your  pocket  ex- 
penses.' She  then  drew  forth  her  purse, 
and  presented  the  delighted  maid  with  a 
twenty-pound  bank  note. 

Grateful  beyond  the  power  of  expression, 
Rebecca  could  only  sink  on  her  knees,  press 
the  hand  of  her  benefactress  to  her  lips,  and 
smiling  through  the  tears  that  gushed  from 
her  eyes,  looked  those  thanks  she  found  h 
impossible  to  utter. 


12 


REBECCA. 


'Go,  go,  you  are  a  simple  girl  I  see,'  said 
her  ladyship,  raising  and  pushing  her  from 
her;  'go,  make  your  father  happy,  and,  if 
you  can  obtain  his  assent  to  my  proposal, 
tomorrow  I  will  come  and  fetch  you  home; 
but  I  must  have  you  mend  that  little  heart 
of  yours,  it  is  a  very  poor  one  to  go  through 
the  world  with.1 

'  It  means  well,1  replied  Rebecca,  trem- 
bling and  confused,  raising  her  timid  eyes 
to  the  face  of  her  benefactress. 

'Aye,  aye,  1  am  sure  of  that,  but  it  is 
too  honest  by  half;  besides,  your  intelligent 
countenance  betrajrs  its  every  emotion.' 

'  I  hope,  madam,  it  will  never  experience 
any  that  may  not  be  revealed  with  impu- 
nity.' 

'Ah!  my  dear,'  said  lady  Mary,  shaking 
her  head,  'you  will,  no  doubt,  one  day  find 
that  it  will  be  for  your  interest  to  disguise 
its  feelings  as  much  as  possible.' 

Rebecca  then  took  her  leave,  and  as  she 
returned  home,  could  not  help  thinking  it 
very  strange,  and  very  inconsistent  too,  that 
sincerity  should  be  deemed  a  virtue,  and 
yet  disguise  be  thought  necessary  to  those 
who  have  much  commerce  with  the  world. 

'  Well,  Miss,  what  success  ?'  cried  Mrs  Lit- 
tleton, as  Rebecca  entered  the  room  ;  '  I  fan- 
cy you  are  convinced  I  was  right,  in  sup- 
posing your  vanity  incited  you  to  hope  with- 
out foundation.' 


REBECCA.  1 3 

'Indeed  iny  dear  mamma,  for  once  you 
were  mistaken:  lady  Mary  has  received  me 
kindly,  and  more  than  granted  my  request.' 

She  then,  with  most  bewitching  simplici- 
ty, related  her  interview  at  the  Park,  while 
Mr  Littleton  looked  exultingly  happy ;  but 
good  mamma  contracted  her  brow,  and  draw- 
ing herself  up,  as  was  her  custom  when  any 
thing  displeased  her,  said  : 

'  I  hope,  Mr  Littleton,  you  will  not  think 
of  letting  the  girl  go:  lady  Mary  certainly 
does  not  mean  to  take  her  entirely,  and  it 
will  only  be  filling  her  head  with  idle  no- 
tions, of  which,  heaven  knows  she  has  plen- 
ty already.  Besides,  what  do  we  know  of 
lady  Mary  ?  It  is  true  she  came  down  here 
last  year,  and  remained  about  three  months ; 
but  who  can  tell  any  thing  of  her  character 
and  morals?  She  may  lead  the  girl  into  all 
manner  of  folly.' 

Now  the  case  was  exactly  this:  the  late 
sir  George  Worthy  had  purchased  this  es- 
tate but  a  few  months  before  his  death,  and 
as  lady  Mary  was  a  woman  of  a  very  retired 
turn,  the  short  time  she  remained  in  the 
country  she  visited  but  few  families,  and 
those  without  ceremony.  Lady  Mary  was 
truly  benevolent,  but  she  performed  those 
acts  herself,  and  not  unfrequenlly  made  the 
silence  and  secresy  of  persons  benefitted, 
the  only  terms  on  which  they  were  to  hope 
a  continuance  of  her  favors. 
2 


1 4  REBECCA. 

She  in  general  resided  at  a  seat  about 
twenty  miles  from  London,  to  the  end  that 
she  might  scrutinize  the  conduct  of  a  daugh- 
ter, who  was  married  to  a  dissipated  young 
nobleman,  and  who,  though  blessed  with  a 
mother  whose  example  might  have  led  her 
on  to  every  laudable  pursuit,  was  so  entire- 
ly swallowed  up  in  the  vortex  of  folly  and 
dissipation,  that  she  had  not  time  to  attend 
to  the  essential  duties  of  a  wife,  mother,  and 
mistress  of  a  family. 

In  the  place  where  lady  Mary  usually  re- 
sided she  was  considered  as  a  proud,  unso- 
cial woman,  by  the  middling  kind  of  gen- 
try ;  by  her  equals  as  an  oddity,  and  by  her 
dependants  as  something  superiorly  good  ; 
she  was  by  them  beloved,  respected,  nay, 
almost  adored  as  an  angel  of  benevolence. 

But  Mrs  Littleton  seldom  gave  people 
credit  for  virtues  which  she  had  not  the  pen- 
etration to  discover,  though  she  could  easi- 
ly imagine  them  capable  of  practising  deceit^ 
inhumanity,  or  almost  any  vice  that  can  dis- 
grace human  nature  :  she  therefore  thus  con- 
tinued her  discourse  to  her  husband — 

1  People  are  not  always  what  they  seem 
to  be ;  this  lady  may  make  very  fair  pro- 
mises, and  when  once  the  girl  te  in  her  power, 
treat  her  as  a  common  servant.  1  beg,  Mr 
Littleton,  you  will  not  let  her  go.' 

'  I  am  sorry,  my  dear  love,'  cried  Mr  Lit- 
tleton, '  to  differ  from  you  in  my  opinion  con- 


REBECCA.  1  $ 

corning  lady  Mary's  oiler;  I  think  our  dear 
girl  will  be  highly  honored  in  her  friend- 
ship and  protection.  You  know,  my  dear, 
if  she  should  find  herself  unhappy,  she  has 
a  home,  however  homely,  where  she  will  be 
sure  of  being  received  with  transport.  I 
am  growing  old  ;  when  I  am  gone  all  is  gone  : 
it  would  be  some  comfort  for  me  to  reflect 
in  my  last  moments,  that  my  dear  Rebecca 
was  not  likely  to  feel  the  pangs  of  want. — 
The  small  annuity  1  have  purchased  for  you 
will  supply  the  necessaries  of  life  to  one, 
but  not  both  of  you.  1  am  as  unwilling  as 
you  can  be  to  part  with  her;  but  it  is  neces- 
sary she  should  be  in  some  way  of  earning 
a  support,  and,  I  trust  she  has  sense  and  for- 
titude sufficient  to  withstand  every  tempta- 
tion to  evil.' 

'Oh!  my  father,'  cried  Rebecca,  taking 
his  hand,  'you  may,  indeed,  depend  on  a 
-child  whose  heart  your  precepts  has  trained 
in  the  love  of  virtue.  Melhinks,  should  I 
•ever  be  tempted  to  si  ray  into  the  paths  of 
vice,  your  blest  image  will  rise  to  my  imagi- 
nation ;  methinks  1  shall  hear  your  persua- 
sive voice  say,  '  Rebecca,  wilt  thou  break 
thy  father's  heart?'  Will  it  be  possible, 
then,  for  me  to  proceed?  Oh!  no;  the  re- 
membrance of  you,  like  a  talisman,  will 
shielc]  me  from  every  danger.' 

'Why,  how  the  girl  talks!'  said  Mrs  Lit- 
tleton :   'I  declare   she   learns   these   things 


16  REBECCA. 

out  of  the  book  she  is  forever  reading;  for 
'tis  not  the  language  of  the  world  ;  there  is 
nobody  hardly  can  understand  her.' 

'  It  is  the  language  of  the  heart,'  replied 
the  father. 

'  Well,  sir,  you  are  to  act  as  you  please  ; 
but  if  any  ill  comes  of  it,  don't  blame  me; 
don't  S3y  I  drove  her  from  home.' 

'  My  dear,  you  talk  of  things  which  never 
could  enter  my  mind.  I  know  you  will  al- 
ways be  happy  to  have  your  child  with  you, 
strange  if  you  are  not  so  amiable  as  she  is! 
But,  as  I  said  just  now,  I  am  growing  old,  I 
cannot  remain  much  longer  with  you,  and 
perhaps  you  may  marry  again.' 

'  Marry  again  !  Mr  Littleton  you  are  sure- 
ly trying  to  vex  me.  Ah!  my  dearest  life, 
when  I  lose  you  I  shall  lose  all  my  happi- 
ness ;  the  rest  of  my  life  will  be  a  continued 
scene  of  mourning;  there  is  a  degree  of  in- 
delicacy in  a  woman  marrying  a  second 
time,  it  is  an  insult  to  the  memory  of  the 
first  husband,  of  which  I  could  not  have  be- 
lieved you  thought  me  capable.  It  has  hurt 
me  more  than  1  can  express,'  and  she  burst 
into  tears. 

'All  this  now  is  nonsense,'  said  the  old 
man,  taking  hold  of  her  hand ;  '  for  my  part 
I  see  nothing  in  a  woman's  having  two  hus- 
bands ;  it  is  naturally  to  be  expected  when 
she  is  left  a  lovely  widow  in  the  prime  of 
life,  as  you  are  now.' 


REBECCA.  1  i 

'No  indeed,  papa,'  said  Rebecca,  inno- 
cently, 'there  is  nothing  in  it  at  all ;  it  is  36 
common  as  can  be.' 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  Miss ;  do  not  talk  so 
unfeelingly  of  the  loss  of  your  poor  dear 
father.' 

'God  send,'  cried  Rebecca,  clasping  her 
hands  fervently,  '  that  for  these  many,  many 
years,  I  may  not  experience  so  heavy  an 
affliction  as  the  loss  of  my  revered  parent: 
it  would  be  a  heavy  stroke  to  us  both,  my 
dear  mamma,  but  to  me  irreparable  ;  for, 
though  you  might  find  another  husband, 
where  should  poor  Rebecca  find  another  fa- 
ther ?'  she  turned  away,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hand,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

After  much  altercation,  it  was  at  length 
agreed,  that  Rebecca  should  accept  lady 
Mary's  offer,  and  that  Mr  Littleton  should 
himself  go  to  the  Park,  that  afternoon,  to 
lhank  her  for  her  bounty,  and  to  request 
her  kindest  attention  to  the  welfare  and 
peace  of  his  darling  Rebecca. 

Lady  Mary  received  him  with  great  po- 
liteness, and,  after  chatting  some  time  with 
him,  and  assuring  him  of  her  protection  to 
his  daughter,  she  thus  addressed  him  : 

'  1  feel  myself  much  interested  in  the  hap- 
piness of  Rebecca,  and  for  that  reason,  thoT 
1  mean  to  make  her  my  companion,  I  shall 
not  introduce  her  into  company,  or  give  her 
a  taste  for  expensive  pleasures.      When   I 

<s>* 


1 8  REBECCA. 

have  visiters,  her  meals  will  be  served  in 
her  own  apartment,  when  1  am  alone,  which 
is  the  greater  part  of  my  time,  she  will  eat 
and  sit  with  me,  reading,  working,  or  amus- 
ing herself,  as  inclination  shall  prompt. 

\  I  will  confess  1  have  an  interested  motive 
for  this  conduct.  1  have  a  son,  Mr  Little- 
ton, the  last  remaining  branch  of  two  noble 
families;  1  am  sensible  his  heart  is  not  in- 
vulnerable, and  I  am  fully  convinced  that 
your  daughter  is  the  most  lovely  woman  I 
ever  beheld  ;  but  all  charming  as  she  is  (par- 
don me,  sir,  it  is  my  duty,  in  this  point,  to 
be  sincere)  I  should  not  choose  to  see  her 
the  wife  of  my  son,  and  I  have  too  high  a 
regard  for  her  to  expose  her  to  trials  to 
which  her  fortitude  may  be  unequal.  I  do 
not  scruple  to  say  it  would  hurt  my  pride  to 
see  her  his  wife;  but  it  would  wound  my 
sensibility  to  see  her  his  mistress.  My  house 
at  Twickenham  is  large;  one  part  of  it  is 
seldom  visited  by  any  bodjr  but  myself; 
here  1  mean  to  order  her  an  apartment,  and 
whenever  1  expect  sir  George,  I  shall  request 
her  to  keep  within  it:  however,  as  he  is  a 
very  gay  young  man,  I  do  not  see  him  very 
often,  and  when  he  does  come,  he  does  not 
stay  above  two  or  three  hours  ;  therefore, 
Mr  Littleton,  let  Rebecca  know  this,  if  she 
can  bear  solitude  sometimes,  and  in  general, 
retirement,  I  shall  esteem  myself  happy  to 
have  her  with  me.     If  she  dislikes  the  plan, 


REBECCA.  1  'J 

do  not  fear  to  inform  me.  I  remember  I  was 
once  young  myself,  and  shall  not  be  at  all 
offended  if  I  find  youth  and  beauty  unable 
to  submit  implicitly  to  the  caprices  of  age. 
One  thing  more  I  must  mention  :  I  shall  reg- 
ularly visit  Audley-Park  once  a  year  ;  Re- 
becca shall  always  accompany  me,  and  as 
we  shall  be  out  of  all  danger  at  those  times, 
every  amusement  that  I  can  procure  she 
may  depend  upon  enjoying.' 

Mr  Littleton  was  a  man  of  sense:  he  was 
pleased  with  lady  Mary's  frankness,  and 
readily  conceived,  that  the  proposed  retired 
situation  of  his  child  would  be  the  only  thing 
to  shield  her  from  those  snares  and  tempta- 
tions to  which  a  young  woman  is  subject, 
who,  possessed  of  beauty,  wit,  and  sensibil- 
ity, has  neither  rank  nor  fortune  to  recom- 
mend her  to  the  serious  attention  of  those 
who  might  pretend  to  admire,  while  they 
lead  the  unsuspecting  innocent  a  victim  to 
vice  and  seduction. 

He  returned  home,  and  maugre  the  ill 
grounded  suspicion  of  his  wife,  the  next  day 
but  one  was  fixed  on  for  the  lovely  Rebecca 
to  attend  her  patroness,  and  enter  on  an  en- 
tire new  course  of  life. 


20  REBECCA. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Lady  Mary  was  not  an  early  riser;  JRe- 
becca  had  been  accustomed  from  her  earli- 
est infancy  to  leave  her  bed  at  six  o'clock; 
she  had,  therefore,  risen  at  her  usual  hour, 
the  morning  after  her  removal,  and  finding 
herself  likely  to  be  alone  till  ten  o'clock, 
went  into  the  library,  and  selected  from 
among  the  many  books  there,  sir  Charles 
Grandison,  for  her  morning  amusement ;  the 
interesting  pen  of  Richardson  had  so  entire- 
ly charmed  her  attention,  that  she  thought 
not  of  time  till  lady  Mary  made  her  appear- 
ance. 

'You  have  been  reading,  my  love,'  said 
she ;  '  are  you  fond  of  novels  ?' 

'  1  like  these  entertaining  histories,  mad- 
am; they  always  command  my  attention, 
and  awaken  my  sensibility.' 

'  It  is  dangerous,  Rebecca,  to  indulge  that 
sensibility  too  much  ;  besides,  my  dear,  you 
must  not  give  way  to  an  excess  of  feeling, 
when  the  tale  you  read  is  only  a  fiction.' 

'A  fiction!  madam;  you  surprise  me.  I 
thought  they  had  been  the  histories  of  per- 
sons who  had  really  existed.' 

'  Far  from  it,  child  :  human  nature  can 
never  rise  to  such  a  pitch  of  excellence  as 
this  sir  Charles  Grandison  is  represented  to 
be  ;  nor  will  you  among  your  own  sex,  be 


REBECCA.  21 

able  to  find  a  woman  like  Miss  Byron:  be- 
sides, if  you  accustom  yourself  to  think  these 
high  wrought  scenes  real,  you  will  find  the 
actual  occurrences  of  human  life  so  flat  and 
insipid,  that  the  very  disappointment  will 
render  you  disgusted  with  the  world.' 

Rebecca  listened  with  attention,  but  still 
in  her  heart  she  thought,  surely  these  ami- 
able characters,  these  interesting  scenes,  are 
not  all  fiction.  I  shall  certainly  at  some 
future  period,  meet  with  men  and  women  as 
amiable  as  these  are  represented.  She  nour- 
ished this  idea  in  silence,  and  dwelt  on  the 
delightful  vision,  till  at  last  too  fatally  con- 
vinced, that  to  be  perfect  was  not  compati- 
ble with  mortality.  She  wept  over  the  er- 
rors of  her  fellow  creatures,  and  lamented 
that  reasonable  beings  in  a  world  abounding 
with  every  comfort,  should  so  ungratefully 
dash  the  cup  of  felicity  from  their  lips,  and 
eagerly  drink  of  that  which  was  strongly 
tinctured  with  gall.  It  is  easily  in  our  own 
power  to  be  happy,  said  she;  but  to  render 
ourselves  really  miserable  requires  much 
art,  contrivance,  and  soliciiude;  for,  before 
we  can  be  completely  unhappy,  we  must 
forsake  the  commandments  of  our  all-wise 
Creator;  we  must  distrust  his  merciful  prov- 
idence, and  render  ourselves  totally  unwor- 
thy his  heavenly  protection. 

But  I  am  speaking  of  her  maturer  reflec- 
tions, and  forgetting  that  she  is  but  just  en- 


22  REBECCA. 

tered  upon  the  grand  theatre  of  life.  And 
to  return : 

The  time  was  now  nearly  elapsed  which 
lady  Mary  usually  spent  in  Lincolnshire, 
which  was  two  months  before  and  one  after 
Christmas,  at  which  period  she  enlivened 
the  hearts  of  all  sir  George's  tenants,  made 
the  smile  of  tranquillity  sit  on  the  counte- 
nance of  age,  and  softened  the  couch  of  pain 
and  sickness. 

And  is  not  this  the  real  incense  to  be  of- 
fered at  so  glorious  a  season?  Will  it  not  go 
up  as  a  sweet  smelling  sacrifice  before  the 
Most  High?  Oh  !  surely  it  will;  the  benev- 
olent heart  will  ever  be  acceptable  to  him 
whose  heavenly  benevolence  led  him  to  suf- 
fer an  ignominious  death  that  we  might  live 
forever  in  glory  unfading,  in  bliss  unchange- 
able. 

It  was  with  infinite  pain  Rebecca  parted 
from  her  father;  nor  did  he  experience  less 
anguish.  'God  preserve  you  my  child,' said 
he,  embracing  her,  'remember  the  happi- 
ness of  your  poor  father  depends  on  your 
well  doing.' 

'Good  bye,  Rebecca,'  said  the  mother; 
'God  bless  you  child,  be  careful,  circum- 
spect, and  wary  ;  suspect  every  one  of  a  de- 
sign on  you  till  you  arc  convinced  of  the 
contrary.  You  must  think  all  men  knaves, 
and  all  women  treacherous,  and  then  you 
will  avoid   many  troubles.     Trust  no  one  : 


REBECCA.  23 

keep  your  thoughts  to  yourself;  if  you  are 
unhappy,  bear  your  sorrow  in  silence,  for 
ho  one  will  pity  you  if  you  tell  it;  the  hap- 
py will  only  laugh  at  you,  and  the  misera- 
ble have  enough  to  do  to  feel  for  their  own 
afflictions.  If  you  are  happy,  be  silent  also ; 
for  if  you  boast  of  your  felicity,  some  will 
ridicule  the  scource  whence  it  flows,  and 
others  will,  from  envy,  endeavor  to  inter- 
rupt that  happiness  they  cannot  themselves 
enjoy;  Keep  your  thoughts  to  yourself; 
have  few  acquaintances,  fewer  intimates,  and 
no  bosom  friends.  Friendship  is  a  very 
pretty  word,  but  there  are  very  few  true 
friends  existing  in  the  world.  Remember 
what  I  say  ;  the  world  is  full  of  deceit ;  and 
silence  and  suspicion  are  the  only  things  to 
secure  you  from  its  effects.' 

'  But  suspicion  is  incompatible  with  Chris- 
tianity,* said  Rebecca;  'we  are  taught  to 
judge  not,  that  we  be  not  judged.' 

Mrs  Littleton  looked  at  her  daughter  with 
an  air  of  surprise,  but  remained  silent.  La- 
dy Mary  pressed  her  hand,  and  led  her  to 
the  chaise.  Rebecca  bowed  to  her  parents, 
and  before  she  was  from  distance  deprived 
of  the  pleasure  of  beholding  them,  the  tears 
effectually  hid  them  from  her  view. 

Their  journey  was  pleasant:  the  novelty 
of  the  objects  she  encountered  in  a  short  time 
diverted  her  ideas,  and  before  she  arrived 
at  Twickenham  she  was  quite  tranquil  and 


24  REBECCA. 

happy  ;  nay,  she  was  even  more  cheerful 
than  lady  Mary  had  ever  seen  her  before* 

It  was  late  when  they  alighted;  but  the 
elegance  of  the  house,  the  extent  of  the  gar- 
dens,  and  the  taste  in  which  they  were  laid 
out,  was  full  and  pleasurable  amusement  to 
Rebecca  the  next  morning.  Her  own  apart- 
ment commanded  a  view  of  the  Thames  and 
its  delightful  banks  ;  she  thought  she  should 
never  be  weary  of  standing  at  the  window. 
'I  will  write  my  father  an  ample  account  of 
this  charming  place,'  said  she  ;  but  when  she 
had  rambled  over  all  the  pleasure  grounds, 
alas  !  thought  she,  it  will  be  impossible  to 
give  him  an  adequate  idea  of  its  beauties. 
1  must  even  request  him  to  come  next  sum- 
mer, and  judge  of  it  himself. 

For  eight  months,  happiness,  pure,  unal- 
loyed happiness,  took  up  her  abode  in  the 
bosom  of  Rebecca.  She  read,  she  worked, 
walked,  or  played  on  her  guitar  alternately, 
as  inclination  led,  and  during  that  time  she 
had  been  confined  to  her  apartment  but 
twice,  once  when  lady  Ossiter  visited  her 
mother,  and  once  when  sir  George  was  ex- 
pected to  dinner. 

Time  now  flew  on  the  softest  pinions  with 
Rebecca  ;  every  rising  day  brought  increase 
to  her  happiness;  the  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion of  lady  Mary  hourly  increased ;  she 
had   discovered   in   her  gentle  companion 


REBECCA.  c2o 

great  taste  for  music,  and  a  dawning  of  ge- 
nius for  drawing. 

These  are  talents,'  said  her  ladyship, 
^jhat  ever  afford  a  fund  of  innocent  amuse- 
ment to  the  possessor,  and  it  is  certainly 
my  duty,  by  cultivating  them,  to  compen- 
sate, in  some  measure,  for  the  cheerful  ac- 
quiescence Rebecca  shows  to  every  desire 
of  mine,  particularly  in  submitting,  without 
repining,  to  a  recluse  life,  which  most  young 
persons,  at  her  time  of  life,  and  possessed 
of  her  beauty  and  vivacity,  would  think  cru- 
el in  the  extreme.' 

Lady  Mary  bad  received  an  education 
befitting  her  rank,  and  had  not  neglected 
the  means  of  improving  a  very  elevated  un- 
derstanding, and  a  bright  natural  genius,  by 
refusing  attention  to  the  ample  means  of  cul- 
tivation which  fortune  held  out;  on  the  con- 
trary she  made  herself  mistress  of  the  fine 
arts,  music  and  painting,  and  to  the  most 
delicate  and  judicious  choice  of  the  works 
of  fancy,  she  added  an  extensive  knowledge 
of  history  and  natural  philosophy. 

To  her,  therefore,  the  cultivation  of  such 
a  mind  as  Rebecca's  was  a  source  of  the 
most  refined  pleasure.  She  saw  its  beau- 
ties daily  expand  under  her  attentive  care, 
with  the  same  delight  as  the  lapidary  dis- 
covers the  crust  that  envelops  the  rough  di- 
amond give  way  to  his  labors,  and  the  ines- 
3 


2<3  REBECCA. 

limable  jewel  assuming  a  degree  of  brillian- 
cy that  promises  well  to  reward  his  industry. 

But  though  the  talents  of  Rebecca  were 
thus  easily  drawn  forth,  and  the  rusticity  of 
her  manners  began  to  assume  a  more  pol- 
ished air,  it  was  impossible  to  alter  the  sim- 
plicity and  purity  of  her  mind.  Whenever 
her  generous  patroness  endeavored  to  give 
her  some  idea  of  the  manners  of  the  world, 
she  manifested  such  a  degree  of  sweet  incre- 
dulity, when  informed  of  vices  of  which  she 
had  no  idea,  and  was  so  ready  to  form  ex- 
cuses for  errors  of  which  she  imagined  few 
could  be  guilty,  and  none  intentionally,  that 
lady  Mary  was  at  length  assured  that  noth- 
ing but  experience  would  convince  the  in- 
nocent maid,  that  every  bosom  was  not  as 
free  from  guilt  and  treachery  as  her  own. 

1  My  dear  Rebecca,'  said  she  to  her  one 
day,  '  I  will  no  longer  labor  to  inform  you 
of  the  vices  and  follies  of  mankind,  the  to- 
tal ignorance  of  which  seems  to  constitute 
your  chief  felicity.  Long  my  sweet  girl,  may 
you  retain  that  primitive  simplicity  of  heart; 
it  shall  be  my  care  to  leave  you  at  my  death 
an  independence,  to  prevent  your  charming 
unsuspecting  nature  from  buying  experience 
at  so  dear  a  rate,  as  an  intercourse  with,  or 
a  dependance  upon  the  smiles  of  an  unfeel- 
ing, misjudging  world.' 

Thus  lady  Mary  determined;  but,  alas! 
like  too  many  others,  she  deferred  adding 


REBECCA.  27 

this  codicil  to  her  will  from  day  to  day,  till 
a  sudden  accident  put  it  entirely  out  of  her 
power. 

The  autumn  was  now  advancing,  and  Re- 
becca looked  forward  to  the  time  when  she 
should  revisit  her  native  village.  '  And  how 
will  my  dear  father  be  delighted,'  said  she, 
'  to  see  and  hear  my  improvements  !  To  be 
sure  there  is  no  harpsichord  in  his  cottage  ; 
but  he  will  surely  come  to  the  Park,  and  then 
I  will  surprise  him  by  playing  some  of  his 
favorite  airs:  my  mother  too,  1  will  request 
lady  Mary  to  let  me  give  her  that  piece  of 
gray  lustring  she  so  kindly  brought  me  from 
town  last  week.  1  will  buy  her  also  a  new 
cloak  and  bonnet;  she  will  bo  the  gayest  of 
all  our  neighbors;'  then  taking  out  her  port 
folio,  she  selected  some  of  her  best  drawings, 
and  in  her  imagination,  arranged  them  round 
her  father's  little  rustic  parlor. 

Lady  Mary  was  that  morning  gone  to 
Windsor  on  a  visit  to  an  old  acquaintance, 
and  Rebecca,  having  amused  herself  in  her 
own  apartment  some  time,  in  the  manner  al- 
ready mentioned,  at  length  took  up  her  gui- 
tar, and  opening  a  window  which  looked  in- 
to a  retired  part  of  the  garden,  and  into  which 
darted  the  mild  rays  of  a  September  sun — 
she  tuned  her  instrument,  and  began  to  sing 
a  littlevsong,  which  she  had  learned  but  a  few- 
days  before  :  it  was  of  consequence  a  favor- 


28  REBECCA. 

ite  from  its  novelty,  more  than  from  its  real 
beauty. 

While  Rebecca  was  singing,  she  had  been 
so  intent  on  her  music,  that  .she  had  not  ob- 
served any  body  enter  the  part  of  the  gar- 
den to  which  her  window  looked  ;  but  on 
laying  down  her  guitar  and  turning  her  eyes 
that  way,  she  perceived  a  young  gentleman, 
in  a  riding  dress,  leaning  against  a  tree,  and 
gazing  intently  at  her.  The  natural  roses 
that  played  on  her  cheeks  were  heightened 
by  this  discovery.  She  arose  hastily  and 
was  going  to  pull  down  the  window,  when 
the  young  gentleman  advanced  with  a  look 
of  the  most  earnest  supplication: 

'  Stay  one  moment,  angelic  creature  !'  said 
he,  'and  tell  me  if  iy-hat  I  now  behold  is 
reality  or  an  illusion?  Art  thou  a  spirit  of 
light,  or  the  loveliest  human  being  the  earth 
bears.?' 

'Sir!1  cried  Rebecca,  with  a  voice  and 
look  of  surprise,  '  did  you  speak  to  me?'  and 
she  involuntarily  suspended  the  hand  that 
was  raised  to  shut  the  window. 

'Oh  !  speak  again,  thou  fairest  of  thy  sex,' 
said  he.  'Tell  me,  art  thou  indeed,  a  mor- 
tal?' 

'  To  be  sure  I  am,'  said  Rebecca,  smiling; 
'what  else  should  I  be?' 

'  And  dost  thou  live  here  ?' 

1  Sometimes,'  replied  Rebecca,  with  more 


REBECCA.  29 

reserve,  beginning  to  perceive  the  impropri- 
ety she  was  guilty  of  in  talking  to  a  stranger. 
'  And  cannot  you  either  descend  into  the 
garden,  or  suffer  me  to  visit  the  apartment 
that  contains  so  much  loveliness?' 

'  I  can  do  neither,1  said  Rebecca,  gravely, 
and  she  again  raised  her  hand  to  draw  down 
the  sash. 

'O!  stay  an  instant,'  said  he 'and  tell  me, 
all  angel  as  thou  art!  did  thy  heart  ever  vi- 
brate with  the  soft  emotions  of  love?' 

'  Sure,  sure,  it  has  !  else  I  were  ungrate- 
ful,' she  replied  innocently.  '  1  love  my  pa- 
rents ;  I  love  my  lady :  yes  heaven  is  my 
witness,  how  much,  how  fervently,  I  love 
her!'  She  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart,  and 
raised  her  eyes  with  a  look  of  grateful  af- 
fection. 

'Enchanting  simplicity!  but  do  you  love 
no  other?' 

'Heaven  forbid!  1  love  all  mankind.' 

'  But  no  one  in  particular?' 

'No.'  Her  uplifted  hand  fell  from  the 
sash,  and  her  eyes  were  cast,  first  on  the 
young  gentleman,  then  on  the  ground. 

'Could  you  love  me,  sweetest?' 

'Methinks  not,  for  you  are  rudely  inquis- 
itive.' 

'  But  you  will  not  hate  me  ?' 

'  Hate  you,  sir !  No  ;  you  never  did   me 
any  harm,  and   if  you  had,  I  know  it  is  mv 
3* 


30  REBECCA. 

duty  to  forgive  you,  and  pray  for  your  hap- 
piness.' 

'Then  you  will  not  think  of  me  with  in- 
difference?' 

'That  would  he  impossibly'  said  she,  in  a 
softened  accent,  as  she  pulled  down  the  win- 
dow. But  he  h(  fird  not  what  she  said,  and 
being  no  longer  able  to  gaze  on  her,  or  listen 
to  her  voice,  he  retired  from  the  garden  in 
no  enviable  state. 

Sir  George  Worthy  was  a  young  man  of 
violent  passions.  At  a  very  early  age  he 
had  been  made  his  own  master,  and  like 
most  young  men  of  independent  fortune, 
from  unlimited  indulgence,  was  led  to  be- 
lieve, that  the  most  trifling  occurrence  which 
thwarted  his  inclination,  was  an  insupporta- 
ble affliction;  it  was  therefore  a  very  great 
mortification  to  him  to  be  obliged  to  quit  the 
garden  in  such  a  state  of  suspense,  especial- 
ly as  he  did  not  know  who  the  young  lady 
was  :  however,  he  resolved  to  stay  at  his 
mother's  house  a  iew  days  (a  favor  which 
he  had  never  deigned  before  since  the  death 
of  his  father)  for  he  imagined  this  fair  visit- 
ant would  of  course  make  her  appearance 
at  dinner,  and,  that  after  the  first  formal  in- 
troduction, he  should  have  the  superlative 
satisfaction  of  enjoying  her  company  in  an 
unreserved  way. 

When  lady  5\lary  arrived  she  was  much 
surprised   to  find    her  son   in  the  drawing- 


REBECCA.  31 

room  ;  but  as  she  had  not  the  remotest  idea 
of  his  having  been  long  there,  after  the  first 
salutations  were  past,  she  went  to  her  own 
apartment,  and  dispatched  Mrs  Harley,  her 
.woman,  to  inform  Rebecca,  that,  as  she  had 
company,  she  would  order  her  dinner  to  be 
sent  up,  and  should  not  expect  to  see  her  in 
the  dining  parlor. 

Harley  was  not  satisfied  with  simply  de- 
livering her  message,  but  also  delivered  her 
own  sentiments  on  the  subject. 

\  Heaven  keep  me  from  pride,1  said  she. 
'One  must  be  blind,  indeed,  not  to  see  the 
cause  of  my  lady's  confining  you  in  this  man- 
ner :  mercy  on  us,  as  if  flesh  and  blood  with- 
out a  title  was  not  as  good  as  flesh  and  blood 
with  one'.  Marry  come  up,  and  I  were  to 
judge,  1  think  you  are  to  the  full  as  good  as 
sir  George,  mayhap  better.  All  is  not  gold 
that  glitters.  1  warrant  ye,  if  sir  George 
was  once  to  see  j'our  sweet  face,  he  would 
think  a  title  well  bestowed.' 

1 1  do  not  understand  you,  my  good  Har- 
ley,' said  Rebecca,  with  a  look  of  the  utmost 
simplicity. 

'O,  it  is  all  very  well,  Miss;  if  you  are 
satisfied  I  am  ;  only  I  say  it  is  a  shame  to 
shut  you  up  so  whenever  sir  George  comes.' 

'  Sir  George  !'  cried  Rebecca,  eagerly  ;  '  is 
he  herve?' 

'  Yes,  Miss  Becky,  he  is,  and  that  is  the 
reason — ' 


32  REBECCA. 

'  Hold,  Harley ;  my  lady's  commands  are 
sufficient  for  me  without  any  reason  alleg- 
ed :  but  pray  how  long  has  he  been  here  ?' 

'  He  arrived  soon  after  my  lady  left  home, 
and  amused  himself  in  the  garden  till  a  few 
moments  before  her  return.' 

"Tis  very  well,'  said  Rebecca,  'your 
mistress,  perhaps,  may  want  you.  Do  not 
let  me  detain  you.1 

Harley  muttered  something  about  insen- 
sible, and  left  the  room. 

Lady  Mary,  having  adjusted  her  dress, 
repaired  to  the  dining-parlor,  and  sent  the 
butler  to  inform  her  son  that  dinner  was 
served.  With  a  palpitating  heart  sir  George 
obeyed  the  summons;  but  how  great  was 
his  surprise  and  disappointment,  on  entering 
the  room,  to  see  no  person  there  but  his 
mother,  and  the  cloth  laid  but  for  two!  His 
chagrin  betrayed  itself  in  his  countenance. 

'Do  we  dine  by  ourselves,  madam?'  said 
he,  somewhat  confused. 

'That  is  an  odd  question,  George,'  said 
her  ladyship.  '  1  thought  you  were  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  recluse  life  I  lead,  and 
therefore  could  not  expect  to  meet  with  com- 
pany at  my  table.' 

*  Why  that  is  true,'  said  he,  with  an  assum- 
ed air  of  indifference,  'but  I  thought  some- 
times a  neighbor  might  drop  in.' 

He  plainly  perceived  there  was  some- 
thing of  a  mystery,  and  he  was  loo  much  a 


REBECCA.  33 

man  of  the  world  not  to  veil,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, the  ardent  desire  he  felt  to  penetrate 
it;  he  therefore  partook  of  the  repast  pro- 
vided for  his  mother,  and  when  the  cloth  was 
removed,  informed  her  he  intended  spending 
a  week  or  trn  days  with  her,  previous  to  her 
departure  for  Lincolnshire. 

Lady  Mary  was  rather  surprised  at  his 
proposal  ;  but  having  long  wished  for  an  op- 
portunity to  converse  with  her  son  on  a  sub- 
ject near  her  hesrt,  namely,  an  union  that 
had  been  for  many  years  thought  of  between 
lady  Eleanor  Harcourt,  her  brother's  only 
child,  and  sir  George,  for  whom  he  had  pro- 
posed to  beg  die  title  of  carl  of  Chatterton, 
in  reversion,  he  being  the  only  male  branch 
remaining  of  the  family;  she  therefore  sat- 
isfied herself  by  sending  an  affectionate  note 
to  Rebecca,  briefly  informing  her  of  the 
cause  that  would  occasion  their  separation 
for  a  few  days,  and  assuring  her  she  would 
visit  her  apartment  the  next  morning  if  op- 
portwrtity  offered. 

Rebecca  sighed  as  she  read  the  note;  but 
she  flattered  herself  it  was  a  sigh  of  pleas- 
ure for  the  happiness  her  benefactress  would 
enjoy  in  the  company  of  her  son. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  lady  Mary 
introduced  the  subject  nearest  her  heart,  and 
endeavored  to  divine  the  real  opinion  sir 
George  entertained  of  his  cousin's  person, 
merit  and  accomplishments. 


34  REBECCA. 

He  frankly  acknowledged  her  a  very 
amiable  woman,  a  woman  every  way  calcu- 
lated to  make  the  marriage  slate  happy  ; 
*  but,'  continued  he,  'pardon  me,  my  dear 
madam,  if  1  say,  1  do  not  think  myself  by 
any  means  worthy  the  hand  of  such  a  wo- 
man.  J  am  wild,  and  have  seen  so  mnch  of 
elegant,  refined  beauty,  that  it  is  no  longer 
an  object  of  admiration,  lean  look  on  my 
cousin  Eleanor,  all  lovely  as  she  is,  without 
the  least  emotion,  except  what  proceeds  from 
the  affection  1  bear  her  as  a  near  and  worthy 
relation;  but  this  is  not  the  kind  of  affection 
necessary  to  form  a  happy  marriage.  My 
heart  has  ever  been  unmoved  by  real  pas- 
sionate love,  and  1  do  believe  if  ever  it  is  en- 
snared, it  will  be  by  the  pure  charms  of  na- 
ture, unadulterated  by  art:  1  declare  to  you 
the  charming  naivete  of  unaffected  innocence 
would  be  to  me  a  thousand  times  more  capti- 
vating, than  ajl  the  charms  of  an  elegant  ac- 
complished woman  of  fashion.' 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  astonish- 
ment of  Lady  Mary  upon  this  unexpected 
declaration  of  her  son  ;  it  kept  her  for  some 
moments  silent.  '  It  is  well,'  said  she,  men- 
tally, 'that  I  took  those  precautions  in  re- 
gard to  Rebecca  ;  she  is  exactly  the  woman 
to  suit  his  taste,  and  I  should  have  experi- 
enced the  mortification  of  seeing  my  son  re- 
ject a  title  and  splendid  fortune,  and  ally 
himself  to  obscurity,' 


REBECCA  35 

'  Perhaps,  George,'  said  she,  smiling,  'you 
have  somewhere  met  with  a  woman  whom 
you  think  to  be  possessed  of  those  captivat- 
ing charms.' 

'O!  no,'  said  he,  carelessly;  'but  why 
should  we  talk  on  this  subject  now  ?  Elea- 
nor and  myself  are  both  young  enough  yet. 
Let  me  see  a  little  more  of  the  world  :  it  is 
more  than  probable  1  may  not  be  the  man  of 
her  choice.' 

'She  will  never  have  her  father's  consent 
to  marry  any  other;  nor  do  I  think  he  ever 
would  forgive  a  step  of  that  nature;  nor  can 
1  say,  George,  that  I  should  easily  overlook 
your  preferring  any  other  woman  to  Elea- 
nor.' 

'  Upon  my  soul,  my  dear  mother,  this  is  a 
most  ridiculous  idea  !  In  the  name  of  com- 
mon sense,  why  are  two  persons,  who  expe- 
rience nothing  more  than  indifference  to- 
wards each  other,  to  be  chained  together, 
and  seal  their  own  misery,  to  gratify  the  in- 
clinations of  those,  who,  though  they  have  a 
right  to  our  ultnost  respect  and  obedience, 
assume  an  undue  authority  when  they  en- 
deavor to  control  us  in  a  point  so  very  deli- 
cate as  the  choice  of  a  companion  for  life.  I 
see  you  are  offended,  my  dear  mother;  let 
me  entreat  you  to  pardon  my  sincerity.  Be- 
lieve me  your  happiness  is  the  first  wish  of 
my  heart,  and  to  promote  it  shall  be  the 
whole  study  of  my  life.     It  is  to  prevent  you 


36  REBECCA. 


from  future  pain  that  I  speak  thus,  for,  alas  \ 
what  anguish  must  seize  the  heart  of  a  pa- 
rent who,  having  forced  a  beloved  child  in- 
to a  loathed  marriage,  sees  him  plugged  in 
misery,  nay,  perhaps  in  guilt,  from  which 
no  power  can  extricate  him  :  but  let  us  not 
part  in  anger,'  continued  he,  rising,  and  tak- 
ing his  mother's  hand.  '  Be  asssnred,  should 
inclination  ever  prompt  me  to  a  union  with 
lady  Eleanor,  every  transport  I  experienced 
will  be  heightened  by  the  thought  that  it  in- 
creased your  felicity  ;  but  should  it  not,  let 
not  your  displeasure  embitter  thelifeofa 
son  who  loves  you  with  the  truest. affection.' 

He  then  kissed  her  cheek,  and  wished  her 
a  good  night. 

'  He  talks  reasonably,'  said  lady  Mary,  as 
he  left  the  room  ;  '  but.it  would  grieve  me  to 
see  the  family  of  Harcourt  sink  into  oblivion, 
when  it  is  in  his  power  to  perpetuate  both  its 
name  and  title.' 

Sir  George  had  previously  given  his  valet 
Le  Brim  an  order  to  make  inquiry  obliquely 
concerning  the  fair  recluse,  whom  he  had 
seen  at  the  window  in  the  garden,  and  now 
retired  with  the  eager  expectation  of  hear- 
ing something  of  her. 

'  Well,  Le  Brun,'  said  he,  '  what  news  ? — 
Can  you  learn  whether  the  fair  spirit  of  the 
garden  haunts  it  continually,  or  only  some- 
times.' 

4  Oui,  Monsieur,'  said  Le  Brun, '  I  did  ask 


REBECCA.  37 

Mademoiselle  Harley.  Oh  !  she  be  one  ver 
pret  voman  ;  she  never  refuse  me  any  thing. 
She  be  von  jolie  petite  fille.' 

'Good  Monsieur,'  said  sir  George,  'defer 
the  account  of  your  own  success  till  another 
opportunity,  and  inform  me  of  what  you 
have  heard.' 

'  Dat  be  vat  I  vas  intend,  my  lor.  Made- 
moiselle Harley  tell  me  dat  my  lady,  your 
moder,  keep  von  ver  charmante  demoiselle, 
to  play,  to  read,  to  sing  to  her  when  she  be 
alone;  but  ven  your  onor,  or  any  company 
be  com,   my  lady  do  shut  her  up.' 

'  And  who  does  Harley  say  she  is?' 

'  Oh  ma  foi !  she  be  de  daughter  of  a  pau- 
vre  old  man,  who  vas  one  soldier.  He  live 
in  Lincolnshire;  de  call  her  Mademoiselle 
Rebecca — ' 

'  And  does  she  constantly  occupy  those 
apartments  in  the  south  wing?' 

'Oui,  Monsieur,  oui,  and  she  valk  every 
morning  in  de  garden  by  de  time  de  sun 
be  up.' 

This  was  enough  for  sir  George.  He  dis- 
missed Le  Brun,  and  determined  to  rise  by 
times  himself,  and  join  her  in  the  garden. 

In  the  mean  time  Rebecca's  thoughts  were 
fully  employed  in  reflecting  on  the  unexpect- 
ed incident  which  had  thrown  her  in  the 
way  of  the  very  man  whom  it  was  her  inter- 
est to  wish  to  avoid.  '  It  was  unfortunate,' 
said  she,  '  very  unfortunate,  that  I  should 
4 


38  REBECCA. 

have  opened  the  window  at  that  lime;  if  la- 
dy Mary  was  to  know  I  had  seen  and  con- 
versed with  her  son,  it  would  make  her  very 
unhappy,  and  yet  how  shall  1  ever  be  able 
to  face  her  after  having,  though  involunta- 
rily, transgressed  the  only  restriction  she 
thought  fit  to  lay  upon  me?  Will  it  not  be 
best  to  watch  the  moment  when  she  retires 
to  her  apartment,  to  go  to  her,  candidly  con- 
fess the  accidental  rencounter,  and  endeavor 
to  deprecate  the  anger  1  must  otherwise  ex- 
pect? Yes,  it  will  certainly  be  right;  my 
kind  generous  lady  Mary  shall  never  have 
occasion  to  accuse  me  of  want  of  sincerity.1 

When  she  had  formed  this  resolution,  her 
thoughts  again  reverted  to  the  elegant,  ac- 
complished manner,  and  fine  person  of  sir 
George;  again,  in  idea,  she  recalled  every 
sentence  he  had  uttered,  and  innocently 
indulged  the  fascinating  reflection,  unsus- 
pecting of  the  consequence. 

The  clock  had  just  struck  eleven,  when 
she  heard  the  footstep  of  lady  Mary  on  the 
stairs.  She  heard  her  enter  her  dressing- 
room,  and  then,  with  palpitating  heart,  pre- 
sented herself  at  the  door  of  the  apartment, 
and,  by  a  gentle  lap,  demanded  admittance. 

Mrs  Harley  opened  the  door;  pale, trem- 
bling, her  eyes  cast  on  the  ground,  the  agi- 
tated Rebecca  entered,  and  courtesying,  in 
a  manner  in  which   the  soul  seemed  to  boVr 


REBECCA.  39 

more  than  the  body,  attempted  an  apology 
for  the  untimely  intrusion. 

'  Come  in,  my  love,1  said  lady  Mary,  then 
looking  at  her  lace,  she  continued,  '  are  you 
not  well,  Rebecca,  or  has  any  thing  alarmed 
you?' 

'  Your  goodness,  madam,  overpowers  me,' 
said  she,  seating  herself;  'my  mind  is  not 
quite  at  ease,  and,  if  you  have  a  few  mo- 
ments to  spare,  I  should  be  glad  to  commun- 
icate something  to  you,  without  any  witness 
to  our  conversation.' 

'Harley,'  said  her  ladyship,  '  1  shall  not 
go  to  bed  just  yet,  and  will  ring  when  1  want 
you.'  (Harley  retired.) '  And  now,  my  dear, 
what  is  this  mighty  secret?1  taking  her  hand. 

'I  am  come,  my  dearest  lad}',' said  she, 
rising,  'to  inform  you,  that  I  have,  though 
undesignedly,  broken  your  injunctions,  and 
incurred  your  displeasure  ;  let  me  therefore, 
madam,  expiate  my  offence,  by  being  ban- 
ished from  this  delightful  place,  and  from 
your  truly  valuable  society.  Send  me  back, 
madam,  to  my  humble  home;  but,  oh!  1 
conjure  you,  do  not  deprive  me  of  your 
friendship  and  good  opinion,  which  I  value 
infinitely  more  than  any  other  earthly  good.1 

'You  surprise  me,  my  dear  child!  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  comprehend  your  meaning. — 
from  the  whole  tenor  of  your  conduct,  since 
you  have  been  here,  I  am  convinced,  that  if 
vou  have  offended  me,  the  fault  was  invol- 


40  REBECCA. 

untary  indeed.  Come,  come,  do  not  loi !:  so 
grave;  I  suppose  this  amazing  fault,  when 
revealed,  will  be  discovered  very  trifling. 
You  have  let  my  favorite  canary  out  of  its 
cage,  or  you  have  broken  one  of  the  large 
India  jars.' 

'  Ah  !  my  dear  lady,  worse,  infinitely 
worse,  I  have  seen  sir  George.  Now  pray 
do  not  look  angry  ;  indeed,  he  is  the  first 
and  only  person  I  have  seen  since  my  arriv- 
al here;  nor  did  I  seek  the  interview.' 

'Do  not  alarm  yourself  thus,  my  love,' 
Said  lady  Mary,  obliging  her  to  sit  down 
again.  'Come,  compose  your  spirits,  and 
tell  me  sincerely  how  it  happened,  what  pas- 
sed between  you,  and  what  you  think  of  my 
son.' 

'Oh!  I  think  him,"1  said  Rebecca,  'the 
most  engaging  young  man  I  ever  saw  ;  he 
has  such  a  manly  look,  yet  such  a  soft  air 
and  voice.' 

'  Indeed  !'  said  her  ladyship  gravely,  '  and 
pray  what  might  he  say  to  you  ?' 

'Ah!  madam,  it  would  be  vanity  in  me 
to  repeat  all  he  said,  he  spoke  so  many  fine 
things.' 

'  It  is  well ;  I  see  you  still  retain  that  can- 
dor and  sincerity  for  which  I  ever  loved  you. 
I  am  fully  satisfied  that  this  interview  was 
not  sought  on  your  side,  nor  can  I  suppose 
it  was  on  his.  You  seem  to  entertain  a  very 
favorable  idea  of  sir  George,  and  1  make  no 


REBECCA.  41 

doubt  but  he  does  the  same  of  you  ;  but  do 
not  from  this  indulge  any  vain  hopes  that 
you  can  ever  be  any  thing  to  each  other. — 
Young  men  of  a  certain  rank  in  life,  do  not 
frequently  match  themselves  with  their  in- 
feriors, yet  they  will  leave  no  art  unassayed 
to  awaken  sensibility  in  the  heart  of  every 
woman  whom  they  affect  to  admire.  Will 
you  make  me  one  promise,  Rebecca,  and 
without  reserve,  ever  remember  to  keep  it 
inviolate.' 

'  Dear  madam,  do  you,  can  you  doubt  me  ? 
Speak  your  commands;  I  am  sure  they  will 
not  be  severe,  and  when  1  disobey  you,  from 
I  hat  moment  may  peace  and  joy  be  strangers 
to  my  bosom.' 

'  Then  promise  me,  my  dear,  that  you  will 
never,  directly  or  indirectly,  listen  to  any 
overtures  of  love  which  sir  George  may 
make,  or  give  him  the  least  encouragement; 
and  while  you  keep  the  promise  sacred,  may 
every  earthly  happiness  surround  you;  and 
should  you  ever  feel  inclined  to  break  it,  re- 
flect it  is  the  only  thing  which  you  can  do  to 
wound  the  peace  of  a  woman  who  loves  you 
as  her  own  child.' 

'Then  hear  me,  madam,'  said  she,  'while 
1  solemnly  protest  that  never,  while  I  retain 
my  senses,  will  I  listen  to  any  profession  of 
love  whatever  from  your  son.  The  grateful 
affection  I  bear  towards  your  ladyship  will 
prompt  me  to  keep  this  vow  inviolable,  hacj 
4* 


42  REBECCA. 

I  no  other  motive  5  but,  my  dear  lady,  I  have 
two  powerful  motives  for  never  infringing  it. 
The  first,  I  trust,  you  will  believe  is  an  invin- 
cible repugnance  inherent  in  my  bosom  to 
every  thing  derogatory  to  the  dignity  and 
honor  of  my  sex,  and  which  will  urge  me  to 
treat  with  scorn  every  overture  that  tended 
to  the  injury  of  either.  And  for  the  other 
pardon  me,  madam,  I  feel  my  inferiority, 
nay,  feel  it  so  powerfully,  that  I  will  never 
meanly  creep  into  a  family  who  would  think 
themselves  dishonored  by  the  alliance.' 

'My  dear  good  girl,'  said  lady  Mary,  em- 
bracing her,  '  I  honor  you  for  this  spirited 
reply.  You  would  not  dishonor  any  family  ; 
but  1  never  was  a  friend  to  unequal  matches  ; 
they  are  seldom  productive  of  much  felicity  ; 
besides,  my  son  is  the  destined  husband  of 
another.' 

Rebecca  heard  her  in  silence,  sighed,  and 
was  preparing  to  leave  the  apartment.  '  Stay, 
my  love,'  said  lady  Mary,  '  though  you  have 
charmed  me  by  the  frankness  and  candor  of 
your  behavior,  I  am  not  satisfied  but  George 
will  attempt  to  see  you  again  ;  shall  1  request 
my  dear  girl  will  keep  entirely  in  her  apart- 
ment tomorrow,  and  avoid  going  to  the  win- 
dows, and  in  the  evening  a  chaise  shall  be 
ordered  to  the  back  garden  gate.  My  own 
man,  James,  shall  attend  you,  and  you  may 
proceed  one  stage  on  your  journey  towards 
Lincolnshire  that   night.     James  will  take 


REBECCA.  43 

particular  care  of  you,  and  see  you  safe  to 
your  father's  house,  where  you  can  pay 
them  a  short  visit,  until  I  join  you,  which 
will  be  in  about  three  weeks'  time.'  She 
then  put  a  heavy  purse  into  her  hand,  bade 
her  consider  it  as  her  own,  and  then  wished 
her  a  good  night — but  calling  her  back  as 
she  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  she  desired 
her  to  be  careful  of  what  she  said  to  Har- 
ley,  and  in  particular  to  avoid  mentioning 
her  intended  journey. 

'Is  it  pride,'  said  Rebecca,  as  she  retired 
to  rest,  '  or  is  it  a  lender  wish  for  my  felicity, 
that  actuates  lady  Mary?  Surely  it  is  the 
latter.  Her  liberality,  her  condescending 
affection,  all  tend  to  convince  me  it  is  my 
happiness  alone  she  is  studious  to  preserve  ; 
and  never  shall  it  be  said  that  Rebecca  Lit- 
tleton, like  the  ungrateful  viper,  stung  the 
friendly  bosom  that  warmed  her  into  life: 
for  surely  the  cultivation  of  our  mental  fac- 
ulties, the  enlargement  of  our  ideas  is  a  sec- 
ond, nay,  a  better  life  than  what  we  receive 
from  nature  ;  and  this  life  I  have  received 
from  my  revered  benefactress.  What  de- 
lightful sources  of  pleasurable  amusement 
has  she  opened  to  my  view  !  How  inestima- 
ble the  benefits  I  have  received  from  her 
hand!'  Then  her  thoughts  reverting  to  sir 
George,  she  continued,  'Surely  the  son  of 
such  a  mother  must  be  all  that  is  good  and 
amiable,  and  it  is  not  infringing  my  vow  to 


44  REBECCA. 

love  him  as  a  brother.  Ah  !  how  happy  will 
be  the  partner  he  shall  choose,  nay,  that  he 
has  chosen;  for  did  not  his  mother  say  his 
destiny  was  lixed  ?  May  their  felicity  be  as 
lasting  as  their  lives!  May  every  earthly 
blessing  crown  them!  May  heaven  shower 
down  its  bounties  on  their  heads,  that  their 
joys  may  render  completely  happy  the  heart 
of  my  kind,  my  generous  lady  Mary  !' 

Then  lifting  up  her  soul  in  its  nightly  ad- 
dress to  the  Throne  of  grace,  she  blended 
the  name  of  sir  George  with  that  of  his  moth- 
er, and  sunk  into  that  peaceful  kind  of  slum- 
ber, which  only  innocence,  like  hers,  can 
enjoy. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Small  was  the  rest  sir  George  enjoyed 
that  night,  and  soon  as  the  morning  peeped 
into  his  chamber  he  left  his  bed,  and  re- 
paired to  that  part  of  the  garden  where  Le 
Brun  had  informed  him  Rebecca  usually 
walked  ;  but  in  vain  was  this  early  attention, 
vain  the  anxious  expectation  in  which  he 
waited,  the  goddess  of  his  morning  adoration 
did  not  make  her  appearance;  nay,  even  so 
scrupulous  was  she  of  her  lady's  injunctions, 
that  she  kept  the  window-shutters  closed  on 
the   side   next  the  garden,  and  only  opened 


REBECCA.  45 

one  that  looked  on  a  grass  plot  thai  faced 
lady  Mary's  apartment. 

Till  near  nine  o'clock  sir  George  walked 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  Rebecca  ;  but  finding 
those  hopes  frustrated,  he  returned,  highly 
disappointed,  to  his  apartment,  and  prepared 
to  meet  his  mother  at  breakfast. 

'She  has  not  been  out,  Le  Brun,'  said  he, 
as  his  valet  was  tying  his  hair ;  '  1  have  walk- 
ed three  hours  for  nothing.' 

'Oh!  Monsieur  will  have  bon  stomache  to 
his  dejeuner.' 

'Damn  the  breakfast,'  said  sir  George. 
'  What  could  keep  the  lovely  girl  from  walk- 
ing as  usual  this  morning?' 

'  She  be  no  wake  yet,'  said  Le  Brun.  '  Ma- 
demoiselle Harley  tell  me  she  no  ring  her 
bell  yet.' 

'Then  Harley  attends  her?' 

'She  want  ver  lit  attendance  ;  she  be  von 
amiable.' 

'But  Harley  answers  her  bell?' 

'Oui,  Monsieur,  oui,  no  oder  do  go  to  her 
chamber.' 

Sir  George  started  from  his  seat,  wrote  a 
few  hasty  lines,  and  bidding  Le  Brun  give 
them  to  Harley  with  five  guineas,  desired 
they  might  be  delivered  into  the  hands  uf 
Rebecca. 

Whenv  Harley  attended  our  heroine  at 
breakfast,  she  laid  the  letter  on  the  table. 


46  REBECCA. 

'And  what  is  this,  Mrs  Harley  ?'  said  she, 
taking  it  up. 

'  A  letter,  Miss,  which  I  was  desired  to  de- 
liver inlo  your  hands.' 

'  From  whom  does  it  come?' 

'  A  sweet  rich  gentleman,  my  dear  young 
lady,  who  having  once  seen  you,  wishes 
again  to  enjoy  that  satisfaction — From  sir 
George  Worthy.' 

'Well  then,  my  good  Harley,  take  it  to 
your  lady,  desire  her  to  read  it,  and  dictate 
the  answer  she  would  wish  me  to  send;  or 
stay,  I  will  enclose  it  in  a  blank  cover,  and 
you  deliver  it  to  the  person  who  intrusted  it 
to  your  care.' 

'  Why,  surely,"'  said  Harley, '  surely,  Miss 
Bock}7,  you  do  not  reflect  oh  what  you  are 
doing!  Sir  George  is  a  man  of  fortune,  a 
handsome,  agreeable  man.1 

'  His  beauty,  to  me,  Mrs  Harley,  would 
bejiis  last  recommendation.  Besides,  I  hope 
ever  to  make  it  an  invariable  rule  of  my  con- 
duct to  receive  no  letters  from  men,  without 
the  sanction  of  those  who  are  better  judges 
of  what  is  proper  than  1  can  be;  but,  as  it 
will  be  needless  to  trouble  my  lady  with  this, 
give  me  that  sheet  of  paper  from  the  writing 
desk.' 

Harley  gave  her  the  paper;  she  folded 
up  the  letter,  sealed  it,  and  gave  it  to  her. 

'  But  you  have  not  directed  it,  Miss.' 

'  There   is   no   necessity  for  directing  it. 


REBECCA.  47 

Do  you  deliver  it  to  the  person  who  gave  it 
to  your  care.' 

'  Ah  !  Miss,  I  think  you  will  repent,  for  Le 
Brun  tells  rue  sir  George  loves  you  to  dis- 
traction. He  has  been  walking  in  the  gar- 
den these  three  hours  in  hopes  of  meeting 
you.' 

1  I  am  vastly  obliged  to  him,'  said  Rebec- 
ca, smiling,  while  her  cheeks  assumed  a 
deeper  glow,  and  her  eyes  a  brighter  lustre. 

(  But  you  do  not  pity  him,  though  his 
heart  is  almost  breaking!' 

'  I  do  pity  him,  Harley,  indeed  I  do ;  and 
if  he  were  poorer,  or  I  were  richer — ' 

'  Ah  !  Miss,  love  levels  all  distinctions. — 
Sir  George  would  think  himself  the  person 
obliged.  He  told  Le  Brun  you  were  the 
only  woman  he  ever  thought  on  with  par- 
tiality.' 

'Mrs  Harley,'  said  Rebecca,  opening  a 
drawer  of  a  small  cabinet,  'do  me  the  favor 
to  accept  these  pieces  of  lace;  I  never  had 
an  opportunity  before  of  giving  you  some 
small  token  of  my  gratitude  for  your  kind 
attention  to  me  since  I  have  been  in  this  fam- 
ily. But,  good  Mrs  Harley,  you  must  nev- 
er talk  to  me  in  this  manner  again.  1  beg 
you  will  not  tell  me  any  thing  that  Le  Brun 
says ;  1  have  no  desire — that  is — it  is  not 
proper — I  must  not  listen  to  such  discourse.7 

Harley,  simpering,  withdrew,  and  the  in- 
nocent Rebecca  little  imagined  she  had  be- 


18  REBECCA. 

trayed  a  secret  which  she  ought  to  have 
guarded  with  the  utmost  care  ;  nay,  she  even 
did  not  think  that  her  heart  was  the  least  in- 
terested in  sir  George's  welfare,  any  other- 
wise than,  as  the  son  of  her  benefactress,  it 
was  her  duty  to  rejoice  in  his  felicity. 

The  remainder  of  the  day  Rebecca  spent 
in  arranging  her  clothes,  &c.  for  her  jour- 
ney; nor  did  she  forget,  among  her  music, 
to  put  the  new  song.  '  It  is  certainly  ex- 
tremely pretty,'  said  she,  and  she  sung  it  to 
herself  all  the  day. 

Towards  the  evening  lady  Mary  rang  for 
Harley. 

1  Harley,'  said  she,  '  I  think  you  have  a 
brother  at  Windsor.  I  have  ordered  a  chaise 
for  Miss  Littleton  to  take  a  ride  this  evening, 
therefore,  if  you  like,  you  may  go  with  her. 
Be  set  down  at  your  brother's,  and  stay  all 
night,  1  will  call  for  you  tomorrow  as  1  take 
an  airing.' 

Harley,  who  little  suspected  the  scheme 
that  was  in  agitation,  readily  embraced  this 
opportunity  of  visiting  her  brother.  She 
looked  about  for  Le  Brun,  to  inform  him  of 
her  intended  absence  ;  but  lady  Mary  had 
,  taken  care  to  send  him  out  of  the  way. 

Her  ladyship  took  a  very  affectionate 
leave  of  Rebecca,  told  her  James  had  re- 
ceived every  necessary  order,  and  again 
thanked  her  for  the  integrity  of  heart  she 
had  so  nobly  shown   in   having  no  conceal- 


REBECCA.  49 

ments  from  her,  and  promised  her,  that  her 
friendship,  for  herself  and  family,  should  be 
manifested  even  after  her  death.  She  then 
returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  kept  sir 
George  engaged  in  conversation  till  she  im- 
agined Rebecca  was  departed. 

Sir  George,  though  mortified  by  the  re- 
turn of  his  letter  unopened,  yet  conceived 
great  hopes  from  the  account  Harley  gave 
him  of  their  conversation,  and  determined  to 
watch  carefully  for  an  opportunity  to  see 
and  personally  plead  his  own  cause  to  his 
fair  enslaver;  but  he  cautiously  concealed 
these  thoughts  from  his  mother,  whom  he 
was  far  from  imagining  was  at  that  very  mo- 
ment counteracting  all  his  schemes. 

In  the  mean  time  Rebecca  continued  her 
journey,  and  by  noon,  on  the  second  day  of 
her  departure,  she  found  herself  drawing 
very  near  her  father's  collage. 

'Ah!'  said  she,  'how  surprised  and  de- 
lighted will  the  dear  old  gentleman  be  to  see 
me  arrive  so  unexpectedly  ;  nay,  I  think, 
even'my  mother  will  rejoice  to  see  me  after 
so  long  an  absence.'  Then,  in  idea,  she  ran 
over  all  she  had  to  relate  to  them.  '  And  how 
my  father  will  applaud  my  conduct!'  said 
she  exultingly.  '  Surely  there  can  be  no 
pleasure  in  this  world  equal  to  the  applause 
of  a  parent  whom  we  love,  and  whom  it  has 
ever  been  our  study  to  obey.' 

The  chaise  drew  up  to  the  door.     She 
5 


M)  REBECCA. 

looked  towards  the  parlor  window;  no  one 
appeared.  'I  am  afraid  they  are  not  at 
home,'  said  she;  but  casting  her  eyes  up  to 
the  chamber,  she  saw  the  window  curtains 
close  drawn.  At  that  instant  Ruth,  their 
faithful  servant,  appeared  at  the  door. 

'Oh!  dear,  Miss,'  said  Ruth,  in  a  lone  of 
sorrow,  '  I  did  not  think  you  could  have 
come  so  soon.' 

'  What   is    the    matter  V   cried    Rebecca, 
springing   from   the  chaise,  and  seizing  the 
hand  of  Ruth  in  breathless  agitation. 
'  Your  poor  father!'  said  the  servant. 
;  Oh,  God  !  my  father  is  dead  !' 
'  No,  my  dear  Miss,  not  dead  ;  but  very — 
very  ill.' 

'Merciful  heaven!'  cried  Rebecca,  sink- 
ing on  her  knees,  with  uplifted  hands  and 
streaming  eyes,  'restore  him  to  my  prayers, 
or  let  me  not  live  to  know  his  loss.' 

The  transition  was  so  great  from  pleasure 
to  extreme  sorrow,  that  she  could  no  longer 
support  it,  but  fainted  in  the  arms  of  Ruth. 

On  her  recovery  she  found  her  mother  by 
her  side.  She  threw  her  arms  round  her 
neck,  wept  audibly  on  her  bosom,  but  could 
not  speak. 

'Ah!  child,  you  may  well  cry,'  said  Mrs 
Littleton,  '  for  your  father  is  not  expected  to 
live  one  hour  after  another.' 

'Then  lead  me  to  him,  dear  mother;  lead 
me  to  hira,  that  I  may  receive  his  blessing, 


REBECCA.  51 

nnd  catch  his  last  sigh.  Ah!  he  must  not 
die  without  a  parting  embrace  to  his  Re- 
becca.' 

Mrs  Littleton  made  no  reply,  but  proceed- 
ed slowly  up  the  stairs.  Rebecca  followed, 
and  in  a  moment  found  herself  by  the  bed- 
side of  her  almost  expiring  father.  He  put 
forth  his  hand — she  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
and  sunk  in  speechless  agony  on  her  knees. 

'  Do  not  lament  thus,  my  dear  child  !'  said 
he  faintly:  '  heaven's  will  be  done!  1  trust 
you  have  found  a  protector  in  lady  Mary, 
and  shall  go  satisfied  with  that  comfortable 
reflection.' 

'Protector!  indeed,'  cried  Mrs  Littleton, 
peevishly;  'heavy  was  the  day  when  she 
left  her  home  for  the  protection  of  strangers  ! 
1  am  sure  you  have  never  been  well  since. 
This  illness  is  all  her  fault.  You  have  done 
nothing  but  pine  and  mope  about,  nnd  if  any 
thing  happens  it  will  lay  at  her  door;  but 
she  was  so  eager  forsooth  to  go,  any  where 
raihcr  than  home,  she  was  tired  of  the  com- 
pany of  her  old  father  and  mother.' 

1  bo  not,  my  dear  love,'  said  Mr  Littleton, 
'do  not  embitter  my  last  moments  by  laying 
on  the  mind  of  this  poor  girl  more  than  she 
can  bear.  Behold  her  anguish,  and  pity  it. 
Do  not  attribute  my  illness  to  so  wrong  a 
cause.,  My  frame  has  long  been  decaying: 
1  felt  it   myself,   though   I   forbore  to  nfflic! 


52  REBECCA* 

jour  bosom  by  mentioning  my  apprchen* 
sion.' 

'Oh!  my  father,'  cried  Rebecca,  'I  hope 
you  will  recover.     I  hope — ' 

'Do  not  deceive  yourself,  my  dear;  my 
disorder  is  a  decay  of  nature,  and  a  slow 
nervous  fever,  which  the  physician  informed 
me  yesterday  it  was  impossible  to  remove. 
1  then  desired  your  mother  to  send  for  you  ; 
but  tell  me,  my  child,  how  is  it  possible  you 
could  have  arrived  so  soon?' 

'  Alas  !'  replied  Rebecca,  '  1  did  not  know 
you  were  ill  till  I  arrived  at  the  door.  1  came 
by  my  lady's  desire  to  spend  a  few  weeks 
with  you  and  my  mother  before  she  comes 
into  the  country.' 

'You  have  not  offended  her,  Rebecca?' 
said  her  father. 

'No,  indeed,'  said  she  exullingly;  'I  am 
higher  in  her  esteem  than  ever.' 

'  Ahi  so  she  may  tell  you,'  cried  Mrs  Lit- 
tleton ;  '  but  I  will  answer  for  it  she  was  tired 
of  your  company,  or  she  would  never  have 
sent  you  away  before  her;  so  there  is  an 
end  of  your  fine  hopes,  Miss  Becky.' 

It  was  with  the  utmost  uneasiness  that  Re- 
becca beheld  her  mother  thus  prejudiced 
against  her.  She  endeavored  to  recollect  if 
any  inadvertent  expression,  in  any  of  her 
letters,  had  given  her  cause  of  offence;  and 
in  hopes  to  conciliate  her  good  humor,  she, 
in  the  evening,  opened  her  trunk,  and  pre- 


REBECCA.  S3 

sented  her  mother  with  the  silk  before-men- 
tioned. 

She  received  it  sullenly,  and  laying  it 
down,  without  scarce  deigning  to  look  at  it, 
said,  '  This  is  no  time  to  think  of  tine  clothes, 
child,  though  in  my  heart  1  believe  your 
thoughts  never  run  on  any  thing  else  but 
dress,  and  fashion,  and  nonsense.' 

The  truth  was,  that  if  Rebecca  had  a  foi- 
ble, it  was  a  passion  for  fashionable  dress: 
but  this  was  never  carried  to  an  extreme, 
and,  though  remarkably  attentive  to  the  dec- 
oration of  her  person,  she  was  never  fine  or 
tawdry. 

This  ill-timed  reproach  of  her  mother's 
filled  her  eyes  with  tears,  and  she  retired  to 
bed,  but  not  to  rest;  her  father's  illness,  and 
the  distance  she  then  was  from  her  benefac- 
tress, were  such  painful  reflections,  that  sleep 
was  a  stranger  to  her  eyes  till  the  morning 
began  to  dawn,  when  she  enjoyed  a  few 
hours  of  composed  slumber. 

Mr  Littleton's  disorder  daily  increased. 
He  found  his  end  nearly  approaching,  and 
frequently  recommended  to  his  daughter  to 
preserve,  after  his  death,  the  same  dutiful 
respect  she  had  ever  manifested. 

To  l\Jrs  Littleton  he  did  not  fail  to  recom- 
mend a  tenderness  of  behavior,  that  might 
tend  to  invite  the  confidence  of  Rebecca. — 
*  You  are  loo  harsh  with  the  poor  girl.' he 
5* 


54  REBECCA. 

would  say,  '  treat  her  kindly  i  I  am  sure  you 
will  find  her  deserving  of  it.' 

'  I  know  her  better  than  you  do,'  was  the 
constant  reply,  'and  I  know  she  is  an  artful 
designing  girl.' 

Mr  Littleton  could  not  believe  any  ill  of 
his  favorite,  and  died  in  her  arms  on  the  fifth 
day  after  her  arrival,  blessing  her  with  his 
last  breath. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Sir  George  had  not  really  determined  in 
his  own  mind  whether  he  would  address  Re- 
becca on  an  honorable  score,  or  merely  gain 
her  affections,  and  then  act  as  he  should  find, 
from  her  manner  and  disposition,  she  de- 
served. 

That  day  and  the  next  he  waited  patient- 
ly in  the  hope  of  seeing  her;  but  on  the 
third,  when  Hanley  returned,  (for  lady  Ma- 
ry did  not  bring  her  home  till  that  time,) 
how  great  was  his  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment to  hear  that  Rebecca  had  been  sent  for 
into  the  country  to  a  relation  who  was  ill; 
for  Mrs  Littleton's  letter  arriving  the  day 
following  Rebecca's  departure,  it  served  as 
a  sufficient  apology  for  her  absence,  though 
indeed  lady  Mary  did  not  think  proper  to' 
enter  into  any  explanations  with  her  woman, 


BEBECCA.  5b 

and  rather  misled  her,  by  mentioning  Bris- 
tol as  the  place  where  Rebecca's  sick  friend 
resided. 

Though  Sir  George  had  previously  in- 
formed his  mother  that  he  proposed  accom- 
panying her  into  Lincolnshire,  he  no  sooner 
heard  that  the  object  of  his  pursuit  had  tak- 
en.a  different  route,  than  he  determined  to 
follow  her. 

4  I  have  thought  better  of  it,'  said  he  to 
her  ladyship;  '1  shall  not  visit  my  tenants 
this  year,  for  1  have  several  engagements  in 
town  which  I  cannot  well  put  off;  besides,  I 
forgot  that  I  had  promised  a  friend  of  mine 
to  accompany  him  to  Bath.' 

'  Ah  !  my  good  George,  your  journey  will 
be  in  vain,'  thought  his  mother. 

In  a  few  days  he  left  Twickenham,  and 
immediately  set  out  with  post-horses  for 
Bristol,  where  both  himself  and  Le  Brun 
were  extremely  diligent  in  their  inquiries, 
though  the  reader  may  easily  imagine  to 
how  little  effect.  However,  he  still  contin- 
ed,  and  nourished  the  hope,  that  by  some 
chance  or  other  he  should  discover  the  res- 
idence of  the  fair  Rebecca  ;  for  as  he  could 
not  suppose  the  situation  of  her  friend  very 
splendid,  he  thought  it  needless  to  inquire 
for  her  among  people  of  fashion  ;  but  he  de- 
sired his  valet  to  be  very  minute  in  exam- 
ining every  house  where  they  let  lodgings. 

Three  weeks  had  now  elapsed   since  Re- 


•56  REBECCA. 

becca's  departure,  and  lady  Mary  was  pre- 
paring to  visit  Lincolnshire,  when,  as  she 
was  conversing  with  her  daughter,  lady  Os- 
siter,  one  morning,  she  was  suddenly  seized 
with  a  fainting  fit,  which  was  succeeded  by 
several  others,  and  left  her  so  weak  and  low, 
that  her  physician  thought  her  life  in  immi- 
nent danger. 

Alarmed  at  this  intelligence,  she  desired 
Harley  to  write  immediately  for  Rebecca  to 
return,  and,  calling  for  pen  and  ink,  deter- 
mined no  longer  to  delay  making  the  poor 
girl  independent ;  but  when  she  took  the 
pen  and  attempted  to  write,  her  faintness 
returned,  and  she  was  totally  unable  to  ex- 
ecute her  purpose  ;  but  resolved  to  do  some- 
thing for  her,  she  called  lady  Ossiter  to  her. 
and  thus  addressed  her: 

'There  is  a  young  woman  of  the  name  of 
Littleton,  who  has  been  with  me  some  lime, 
though  now  she  is  in  the  country.  She  is 
of  a  sweet  disposition,  and  it  was  my  inten- 
tion to  leave  her,  at  my  death,  a  thousand 
pounds.  I  request  you,  my  child,  to  pay 
her  this  sum  as  soon  as  you  conveniently 
can,  after  my  decease,  and  also  give  her 
my  watch,  a  small  picture  set  with  pearls, 
and  this  ring,  (taking  one  from  her  finger.) 
1  hope  she  will  arrive  time  enough  to  be  in- 
formed from  my  own  mouth  of  my  inten- 
tions  in    her  favor;  but  should   she    not,  I 


REBECCA.  57 

trust  you  will  not  be  neglectful  of  the  desire 
of  a  dying  mother.' 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  and  many  in- 
terruptions, that  lady  Mary  made  known 
to  her  daughter  this  her  request.  Lady  Os- 
siler  promised  obedience — but  alas  !  she  sel- 
dom remembered  her  promise,  however  sa- 
credly given.  It  was  impossible  to  give  Sir 
George  notice  of  his  mother's  danger,  for  no 
one  knew  where  he  was. 

Lady  Mary  continued  tolerably  composed 
all  that  night,  but  the  next  day  her  fits  re- 
turned, and  she  expired  in  the  evening. 

When  Rebecca  received  the  news  of  her 
benefactress'  illness,  she  ran  to  Audley  Park. 
James  was  still  there.  '  Your  lady  is  very 
ill,  James,'  said  she, '  I  must  set  off  immedi- 
ately for  Twickenham.' 

'  And  I  will  attend  you,  Miss,'  said  James, 
eagerly,  'only  say  when  you  will  like  to  go, 
and  I  will  order  the  chaise.' 

'  I  will  go  the  moment  you  can  procure 
one,'  said  she.  '  I  thought  you  would  go 
with  me,  James,  and  indeed  I  should  not 
like  to  take  such  a  long  journey  by  myself; 
but  do  not  order  a  horse,  my  good  James, 
we  shall  travel  faster  if  you  ride  with  me  in 
the  chaise.  I  could  not  bear  to  have  you 
hurrying  after  me  on  horseback.' 

Jame»s  had  lived  with  lady  Mary  from  the 
day  of  her  marriage.  He  had  served  his 
mistress  with   the   truest  fidelity,  and  tears 


58  REBECCA. 

gushed  from  his  aged  eyes  when  he  heard 
of  her  danger. 

When  IVlrs  Littleton  found  Rebecca  was 
determined  to  obey  Rarley's  summons,  she 
conceived  it  was  a  high  and  unpardonable 
breach  of  filial  duty,  for  her  to  think  of 
leaving  a  mother  in  so  early  a  state  of  wid- 
owhood. 

'  Yon  give  me  a  great  proof  of  your  affec- 
tion, Miss,'  cried  she,  scornfully,  'to  lrave 
me  in  so  much  affliction  and  C.y  post  haste 
after  strangers.  However,  wc  shall  sec  who 
is  most  worthy  your  attention,  if  my  lady 
gets  tired  of  you.' 

Though  Rebecca  was  greatly  hurt  by 
these  unjust  reproaches,  it  did  not  prevent 
her  intended  journey,- for  she  set  off  that 
evening,  attended  by  James;  and,  indeed, 
in  her  own  mind,  firmly  resolved  that  noth- 
ing but  absolute  necessity  should  oblige  her 
over  again  to  visit  Lincolnshire,  except  with 
her  patroness. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  she  arriv- 
ed at.  Twickenham.  The  sad  countenance 
of  the  domestic  that  opened  the  door,  led 
her  presaging  heart  to  fear  the  worst. 

Harley  met  her  in  the  hall,  pressed  her 
hand  in  silence,  and  proceeded  to  light  her 
to  her  usual  apartment. 

Rebecca  hardly  dared  breathe  as  she  as- 
cended the  stairs;  on  passing  the  dressins;- 
room  of  her  friend,  she  stopped,  looked  ear- 


REBECCA.  59 

ncsily  at  her  attendant,  and  laying  her  hand 
on  her  heart,  cried  : — '  tell  me  the  truth — ' 
but  her  respiration  became  so  short  she  was 
unable  to  go  on. 

'All  is  over.' 

'I  feared  so,'  cried  Rebecca;  then  turn- 
ing into  her  own  room,  she  sank  on  the  bed 
in  a  state  of  insensibility,  which  continued 
some  time. 

Harley  endeavored  to  restore  her,  and 
at  length  succeeded.  Rebecca  raising  her 
clasped  hands  to  heaven,  exclaimed,  '  Thy 
will  be  done;1  and  the  salutary  drops  of 
sorrow  gushed  in  a  torrent  from  her  eyes ! 
Harley  was  pleased  to  see  them  flow,  and 
imagining  that  to  leave  her  to  the  free  in- 
dulgence of  them  would  be  best,  retired  to 
inform  lady  Ossiter  (who  had  not  yet  left 
Twickenham)  that  our  heroine  had  arrived. 

'  I  will  see  her  in  the  morning,'  said  she, 
carelessly,  'lake  her  with  you  to  the  house- 
keeper's room.' 

4  She  is  in  her  own  apartment,  madam. 
She  never  associated  with  even  the  upper 
servants.' 

'  O !  she  is  quite  the  fine  lady,  I  suppose  : 
how  could  you  endure  thecreature's  pride  V 

'I  never  discovered  that  she  had  any.' 

1  My  mother  used  to  say  that  she  was  very 
handsojnic,'  said  her  ladyship,  looking  in  the 
glass. 

'I  believe  every  one  thought  so  who  look- 


60  REBECCA, 

ed  at  her.  Sir  George  was  greatly  struck 
with  her  beauty,  though  he  saw  her  only 
once.' 

'Well,  so  much  the  better;  I  suppose  he 
will  take  the  trouble  of  providing  for  her  off 
my  hands;  don't  you  think  so?' 

;  Indeed,  madam,  1  have  often  thought  she 
would  one  day  be  his  wife.' 

'Woman  !'  said  lady  Ossiter,  turning  has- 
tily round,  with  a  look  of  the  utmost  con- 
tempt, '  how  could  such  an  idea  enter  your 
mind?  His  wife,  indeed!  No,  I  think  George 
knows  belter  than  that;  he  may,  perhaps, 
make  her  his  mistress;  but  go,  good  woman, 
go,  you  have  made  me  quite  sick  by  the  hor- 
rid suggestion.' 

'Poor  Rebecca,'  said  Harley,  to  herself, 
as  she  left  the  imperious  lady  :  '  poor  girl, 
you  will  see  a  sad  change,  1  fear.  You  have 
lost  your  best  friend,  and  so  have  we  all  in- 
deed ;  for  though  my  late  dear  lady  was 
proud,  she  never  wanted  humanity.' 

When  the  mind  of  Rebecca  became  a  lit- 
tle composed,  Harley  prevailed  on  her  to 
take  some  refreshment.  She  then  inquired 
in  whieh  room  the  remains  of  her  dear  ben- 
efactress lay. 

'  In  her  own  dressing-room,  as  yet,  but  to- 
morrow she  is  to  be  removed.' 

Rebecca  said  but  little  more,  and  Harley, 
thinking  the  fatigue  of  her  journey,  and  the 
agitation  of  her  mind  combined,  might  incline 


REBECCA.  61 

her  to  go  early  (o  rest,  removed  the  supper 
table  and  wished  her  a  good  night. 

No  sooner  was  Rebecca  alone,  than  she 
gave  way  to  a  fresh  burst  of  grief;  the  loss 
of  her  father  was  again  renewed,  the  unkind- 
ness  of  her  mother  now  was  remembered 
with  double  anguish,  and  her  own  friendless- 
situation  struck  so  forcibly  on  her  mind,  as 
to  make  her  sorrow  almost  insupportable. 

At  length  her  tears  seemed  exhausted  ;  a 
kind  of  torpid  calm  succeeded,  and  she  de- 
termined to  visit  the  chamber  of  death. 

With  hasty  and  unequal  step  she  reached 
the  door  of  the  apartment,  opened  it,  and 
paused  for  a  moment  to  summon  all  her  for- 
titude. The  attendants  in  the  adjoining  room 
heard  her  enter  and  approached  to  console 
her;  but  she  waved  her  hand  in  silence  for 
them  to  retire,  and  they,  respecting  her  too 
much  to  attempt  an  intrusion  on  her  grief, 
left  her  to  the  free  indulgence  of  it. 

She  placed  the  light  she  held  on  a  table, 
and  approaching  the  coffin,  gazed  with  rev- 
erential awe  on  the  countenance  which  had 
often  beamed  on  her  looks  of  the  kindest  be- 
nevolence. 

'Dear  and  only  friend,'  said  she,  'since 
thou  art  gone,  where  is  there  a  heart  re- 
maining that  feels  one  spark  of  affection  for 
the  poor  Rebecca  ?  O,  my  more  than  mother, 
thy  adopted  child  is  now  bereft  of  every 
earthly  comfort !  Spirit  of  purity,  look  down 


62  REBECCA. 

from  the  mansions  of  felicity,  and  hear  the 
vows  I  here  repeat — never  to  infringe  one 
command  of  your's  while  life  warms  my 
heart.  While  you  lived,  it  was  my  pride, 
my  glory,  to  deserve  the  aiFection  with  which 
you  honored  me  ;  and  it  shall  still  be  my 
study  to  preserve,  to  the  latest  hour  of  my 
life,  my  integrity  unshaken  :  though  you  can 
no  longer  be  sensible  of  my  respect  and  love, 
sacred  shall  be  your  memory  to  my  heart.' 

Here  her  feelings  overpowered  her;  her 
head  sunk  on  her  hand — her  tears  again 
burst  forth — her  lips  continued  to  move — 
tut  articulation  was  denied. 

At  this  instant  the  door  opened  and  sir 
George  entered.  He  started,  involuntarily, 
on  beholding  Rebecca.  Her  pensive  atti- 
tude, her  depressed  countenance,  plainly  de- 
picted the  sorrows  of  her  heart;  the  afflict- 
ed maid  had  not  heard  his  approach.  He 
drew  near  and  laid  his  hand  on  one  of  hers. 
She  raised  her  timid  eyes,  looked  at  him 
mournfully,  pointed  to  the  coffin,  and  cried 
emphatically — 'She  is  gone  forever!' 

Sir  George  really  loved  and  respected  his 
mother;  nor  had  he  heard  of  her  illness, 
when  the  public  prints  announced  her  de- 
cease. Shocked  beyond  measure,  he  took 
post-horses,  and  never  stopped,  even  for  nec- 
essary refreshment,  till  he  alighted  at  his 
mother's  gate,  faint  and  fatigued.  He  asked 
if  his  sister  was  there,  and  being  informed 


REBECCA.  63 

she  was  in  the  drawing-room,  he  went  has- 
tily up  stairs  ;  but  how  was  he  disgusted  on 
entering  the  room  to  see  the  unfeeling  daugh- 
ter of  so  good  a  mother  receive  him  without 
i\uy  emotion. 

She  arose,  presented  her  cheek,  was  glad 
to  see  him,  slightly  mentioned  the  melan- 
choly event,  and  soon  after  asked  him  if  he 
intended  ordering  a  mourning  coach,  or  only 
to  put  his  servants  in  black?  lI  think,'  con- 
tinued she,  '  the  mournings  are  much  short- 
er than  they  used  to  be,  and  nothing  near 
so  deep  :  for  my  own  part  I  detest  mourn- 
ing, it  makes  one  look  so  dismal.' 

Just  then  lord  Ossiter  entered,  and  pro- 
posed a  game  at  cards,  by  way  of  whiling 
away  the  evening. 

'Ah!  do  join  us,  George,'  said  his  wife, 
'I  have  been  moped  to  death  for  a  week.' 

'  I  am  not  in  a  humor  for  amusement,  sis- 
ter,'said  sir  George,  coldly  ;  land  since  you 
have  no  feeling  yourself  for  the  irreparable 
loss  we  have  sustained,  I  shall  not  trouble 
you  with  mine,  but  retire  where  1  may  in- 
dulge them  uninterrupted.' 

How  great  must  be  the  contrast  I  hen  be- 
tween this  unfeeling  sister,  and  the  affecting 
sensibility  of  Rebecca  !  lie  pressed  her  pas- 
sive hand  in  silence,  mingled  his  tears  with 
hers,  and  found  his  heart  insensibly  relieved. 

•  My'poor  mother,'  said  he,  after  a  pause. 


64  REBECCA. 

of  a  few  moments,  'little  did  I  think  when 
we  parted,  it  was  the  last  time !' 

'She  is  undoubtedly  happy,'  said  Rebec- 
ca, in  some  measure  forgetting  her  own  sor- 
row, and  wishing  to  convey  consolation  into 
thr  bosom  of  sir  George. 

'Oh!  I  know  she  is,'  replied  sir  George; 
'if  the  practice  of  every  virtue  can  insure 
felicity,  she  is  happy  beyond  what  our  weak 
imaginations  can  paint.1 

Rebecca's  tears  streamed  afresh.  'Ah! 
my  dear  mother,'  said  he,  'your  loved  re- 
mains are  embalmed  by  the  tears  of  grate- 
ful affection,  though  thy  daughter,  forgetful 
of  thy  worth,  can  amu^e  herself  with  trifles, 
and  neglects  the  tribute  due  to  thy  memory.' 

•Ah!' said  Rebecca,  '1  never  can  forget 
her — never  wish  it;  for  the  remembrance  of 
her  virtues  will  emulate  me  in  the  attempt 
to  imitate  them.' 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  those  of  her  clay 
cold  benefactress,  faintly  and  tremulously 
pronounced  the  word  '  farewell !'  and  rushed 
hastily  out  of  the  apartment. 

The  next  morning,  at  twelve  o'clock,  Har- 
ley  summoned  her  to  attend  lady  Ossiter. 

On  entering  the  dressing-room,  she  found 
her  ladyship  deeply  engaged  with  her  man* 
tua-maker,  and  milliner.  She  did  not  even 
notice  the  entrance  of  Rebecca;  but  thus 
continued  her  directions  to  the  former  ol 
her  tradeswomen  : 


REBECCA.  Go 

'Let  them  be  made  as  elegant  and  as  full 
as  possible  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  remember, 
1  wish  to  pay  every  necessary  respect  to 
my  poor  mother.  It  was  a  very  sudden 
thing.  Mrs  Modely,  you  cannot  think  how 
it  shocked  me;  my  nerves  will  not  be  set- 
tled again  this  fortnight,  I  dare  say;  then  a 
thing  of  this  kind  forces  one  to  be  mewed 
up,  and  see  no  company,  so  1  thought  1 
might  as  well  stay  where  I  was,  as  go  to 
town.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  Modely,  let 
my  white  bombazine  be  very  handsome, 
and  full  trimmed  with  crape:  1  do  not  mean 
to  keep  from  visiting  above  a  fortnight,  and, 
I  think,  in  a  month  or  six  weeks  I  may  wear 
white  muslin,  with  black  crape  ornaments, 
for  undress.' 

The  accommodating  mantua-maker  con- 
sented to  all  the  lady  said,  when,  turning 
round  to  speak  to  her  milliner,  lady  Ossiter 
was  struck  by  the  elegant  person,  and  mod- 
est humble  countenance  of  Rebecca. 

4  Oh  !  1  suppose,'  said  she,  carelessly,  '  you 
are  the  young  woman  my  poor  mother  men- 
tioned in  her  last  moments?' 

Rebecca  courtesied  assent,  but  was  una- 
ble to  speak. 

'  Ah  !  she  was  very  good  to  you,  I  under- 
stand. Well,  don't  make  yourself  uneasy, 
I  will  be  your  friend  in  future.' 

She  attempted  to  express  her  thanks;  but 
6* 


66  REBECCA. 

her  emotions  were  so  violent,  she  was  forced 
to  continue  silent. 

1 1  dare  say,  child,'  said  her  ladyship, 
;you  have  some  taste  in  dress;  come,  give 
me  your  opinion  about  the  caps  I  have  or- 
dered. Here  La  Blond,  show  her  those 
caps:  well  now,  what  do  you  think,  will 
these  be  deep  enough?  for,  though  I  hate 
mourning,  1  would  not  be  wanting  in  re- 
spect; one's  friends  are  apt  enough  to  say 
ill-natured  things;  one  can't  be  too  cautious 
in  giving  them  occasion.  Do  you  think  1 
should  go  without  powder?  You  look  mon- 
strous well  without  powder;  but  then  you 
have  light  hair,  and  your  black  dress,  tho' 
so  very  plain,  is  becoming.  Who  are  you 
in  mourning  for,  child  ?' 

Rebecca  was  struck  almost  speechless 
with  astonishment. 

'Good  heavens!'  said  she,  mentally,  'can 
this  be  the  daughter  of  lady  Worthy?' 

'Who  are  you  in  mourning  for,  child?' 
said  lady  Ossiter. 

'My  father,  madam/ 

'Oh!  you  have  lost  your  father.  Well  it 
can't  be  helped,  old  folks  must  be  expected 
to  fall  off.  You  must  not  be  low  spirited  if 
you  are  with  me:  I  hate  low  spirited  peo- 
ple, though  since  I  lost  my  poor  mother  I 
have  been  low  enough  myself;  but  I  endea- 
vor to  shake  it  off  as  much  as  I  can;  it  is  of 
no  manner  of  use  to  £rrieve :  when  folks  are 


REBECCA.  67 

once  dead,  we  can't  recal  them,  though  we 
fretted  ourselves  blind.' 

'  But  we  cannot  always  command  our  feel- 
ings, madam,'  said  she. 

'No,  child,  that  is  true.  I  am  sure  I  often 
wish  my  feelings  were  not  so  delicate  as  they 
are;  it  is  a  great  affliction  to  have  too  much 
sensibility.  Pray  'what  is  your  name,  my 
dear?' 

'  Rebecca.1 

'That's  a  queer  old  fashion  name.  I  re- 
member when  my  mother  used  to  make  me 
read  the  great  family  Bible;  I  remember 
then  reading  about  Rebecca  Somebody; 
but,  Lord!  child,  'tis  a  vast  vulgar  name; 
I'd  alter  it  if  I  were  you;  one  never  hears 
of  such  a  name  among  people  of  any  refine- 
ment.' 

'  I  am  sorry  it  does  not  please  your  lady- 
ship,' said  she,  almost  smiling  at  her  absur- 
dity ;  '  but  as  I  was  christened  by  it,  1  must 
be  satisfied  with  it.' 

'WeH,  then,  Rebecca,  but  what  is  your 
other  name?' 

'  Littleton,  madam.' 

'  Ah,  Lord  !  they  are  both  three  syllables  ; 
that  is  so  tiresome.  Well,  but,  Rebecca, 
(for  I  like  that  name  best  on  account  of  its 
oddity)  should  you  have  any  objection  to 
enter  into  my  service  ?' 

'Far  from  it,  madam:  I  shall    cheerfully 


68  REBECCA, 

serve  any  part  of  the  family  of  my  dear  de- 
parted lady.' 

'Ah!  but  I  am  not  quite  so  sentimental  as 
my  mother  was:  1  shall  not  want  any  per- 
son to  work  and  read  by  me.  1  shall  want 
you  to  be  useful :  now,  for  instance,  to  make 
up  my  morning  caps,  to  trim  my  muslin  dres- 
ses.    Can  you  speak  French,  child  ?' 

'Yes,  madam,  and  shall  be  happy  to  ren- 
der myself  useful  in  any  thing  within  the 
compass  of  my  power.  I  do  not  wish  to  eat 
the  bread  of  idleness.' 

She  spoke  with  a  degree  of  spirit  that 
surprised  lady  Ossiter:  however,  she  una- 
bashed proceeded : 

'  I  have  two  little  boys  and  a  girl ;  I  really 
have  not  time  to  attend  to  them  :  now  I  could 
wish  you  to  hear  them  read,  give  them  some 
little  knowledge  of  the  French,  and  take  care 
of  Miss  Ossiter's  clothes.  Can  you  make 
frocks  ?' 

'1  make  no  doubt  but  I  can,  if  I  try,  and 
my  utmost  endeavors  shall  not  be  wanting.' 

'That  is  well.  I  understand  my  mother 
did  not  suffer  you  eat  with  the  servants,  so 
you  shall  have  your  meals  in  the  nursery 
with  the  children.  I  suppose  if  my  woman 
should  happen  to  be  ill,  or  out  of  the  way, 
you  would  have  no  objection  to  dress  or  un- 
dress me.' 

'I  am  afraid  I  should  be  awkward,  mad- 
am; but  if  you  will  pardon  my  want  of  ex- 


REBECCA.  69 

pciience,  you  shall  always  find  me  ready  to 
obey  your  commands.1 

'And  what  wages  do  you  expect?' 

'  Whatever  you  please.' 

'What  did  my  mother  give  you?' 

'  I  had  no  settled  salary.' 

'  Well,  but  I  like  to  know  what  I  am  about. 
I'll  give  you  sixteen  guineas  a  year.' 

Rebecca  agreed  to  the  terms,  and,  retir- 
ing to  her  apartment,  left  lady  Ossiter  to  fin- 
ish her  consultation  with  her  milliner  and 
mantua  maker,  while  she  took  up  her  pen, 
and  informed  her  mother  that  she  had  en- 
tered into  a  new  line  of  life,  in  which  she 
hoped  to  be  enabled  to  do  her  duty,  and 
gain  the  approbation  of  her  lady. 


CHAPTER  V. 

During  the  lime  that  intervened  between 
the  death  of  lady  Mary,  and  her  interment, 
sir  George,  though  he  frequently  thought  of 
Rebecca,  made  no  attempt  to  see  her,  but 
satisfied  himself  with  sending  every  day  to 
inquire  after  her  health. 

t  It  is  certainly  a  very  improper  time,'  said 
he,  'to  think  of  entertaining  her  on  the  sub- 
ject of  vlove.  Her  heart  is  at  present  over- 
charged with  sorrow  ;  besides,  I  should  prove 
myself  unworthy  of  her  esteem,  could  T,  at 


70  REBECCA. 

this  melancholy  period,  think  seriously  on 
any  thing  but  the  mournful  cause  of  our 
meeting.' 

The  morning  after  the  last  solemn  ccrc- 
mony  was  performed,,  sir  George,  sitting  at 
breakfast  wilh  his  brother  and  sister,  men- 
tioned that,  in  respect  to  his  mother's  mem- 
ory, he  should  remain  at  Twickenham  a  cou- 
ple of  months,  and  see  no  company  but  one 
or  two  select  friends:  he  then  invited  lord 
and  lady  Ossiter  to  remain  with  him  during 
that  period,  and  proposed  sending  immedi- 
ately for  the  children. 

'  You'll  pardon  me,  brother,'  said  her  lady- 
ship :  ' 1  cannot  think  of  remaining  any  lon- 
ger in  this  melancholy  place  than  till  tomor- 
row, and  1  must  say  you  are  much  to  blame, 
in  resolving  to  bury  yourself  from  the  world  : 
]  am  sure  it  is  a  step  which  cannot  be  expect- 
ed from  so  young  a  man.' 

'You  are  to  act  as  you  please,  sister,  and, 
I  hope  you  will  permit  me  to  do  the  same.' 

'Oh!  apropos. you  know  the  young  woman, 
Rebecca — what's  her  name?  I  never  can  re- 
member it.  She  that  my  mother  kept  with 
her  as  a  kind  of  companion.' 

'I  have  seen  her,'  said  sir  George,  'and 
cannot  but  be  surprised  my  mother  made  no 
mention  of  her  in  her  will;  but,  I  suppose 
she  desired  you  to  make  some  provision  for 
her.' 


REBECCA,  71 

'Yes,  she  did  mention  her  to  me,  and  I 
have  taken  her  into  my  protection.' 

'Here  lord  Ossiter,  who  had  been  care- 
lessly looking  over  the  newspaper,  laid  it 
down. 

1  So  then.1  said  he,  with  an  air  of  curios- 
ity, 'your  ladyship  has  taken  her  as  a  com- 
panion; but,  pray,  if  that  is  the  case,  why 
is  she  not  at  the  breakfast  table,  to  save  you 
the  trouble  of  making  the  tea  ?' 

'Oh!  you  labor  under  a  vast  mistake,  my 
lord;  no  humble  toad-eater  will  ever  make 
a  part  of  my  household,  I  assure  you.  I  de- 
test the  whole  class  of  them ;  they  are  in 
general  a  set  of  forward,  impertinent  crea- 
tures, made  up  of  pride  and  idleness  :  I  keep 
nobody  about  me  who  cannot  render  them- 
selves useful;  and  1  know  of  no  use  your 
cringing  companions  are  but  to  criticise  their 
ladies1  actions,  and  contribute  to  their  lords' 
amusement.' 

His  lordship  looked  disappointed,  and  re- 
sumed the  newspaper. 

Sir  George  was  perfectly  astonished  at  his 
sister's  ill-bied  expressions;  but  willing  to 
know  in  what  manner  Rebecca  was  provided 
for,  simply  asked  the  question. 

'Why,  I  have  taken  her  into  the  nursery, 
to  teach  the  children  to  read.' 

'1  approve  the  plan  vastly,'  said  lord  Os- 
siter, again  laying  down  the  paper:  '1  think 
the  children  wanted  a  governess.' 


72  REBECCA. 

'  Not  so  fast,  my  lord  ;  I  hare  as  great  a 
dislike  to  governesses  as  to  companions.  1 
hate  the  whole  class  of  your  second-hand 
gentry.  Rebecca  will  hear  them  read,  dress 
and  undress  Miss  Ossiter,  make  her  frocks, 
and  upon  occasion,  assist  my  woman.' 

Sir  George  felt  his  cheeks  glow  with  indig- 
nation. 'I  think,  sister,'  said  he,  'consid- 
ering the  place  she  held  in  our  mother's  es- 
teem, the  situation  you  mean  to  give  her  is 
not  paying  that  dear  woman's  memory  a 
proper  respect ;  besides,  1  do  not  think  it 
probable,  after  having  been  treated  as  the 
companion  of  lady  Mary,  Miss  Littleton  will 
feel  herself  satisfied  with  being  only  the  ser- 
vant of  her  daughter.' 

'Don't  make  yourself  uneasy  about  that, 
George;  1  have  talked  with  her,  and  agreed 
about  terms:  however,  if  you  choose  to  re- 
tain her  here  as  housekeeper  extraordina- 
ry,' attempting  an  arch  look. 

fcTo  cheer  the  solitary  days  of  mourning," 
added  his  lordship. 

Sir  George  darted  at  them  both  a  look  of 
the  utmost  contempt.  '  Your  inuendoes,' 
said  he, 'are  as  cruel  as  they  are  ground- 
less :  however,  lady  Ossiter,  you  will  please 
to  know,  that  no  person  that  has  been  hon- 
ored by  the  friendship  of  my  mother,  shall 
be  treated  with  disrespect,  when_J  have  the 
power  to  prevent  it.     If  Miss  LittTeton  is  not 


REBECCA.  73 

satisfied  with  her  situation,  I  shall  think  it 
my  duty  to  place  her  above  it.1 

'I  will  send  for  her,  and  you  may  ask 
her,1  said  her  ladyship. 

'Aye,  that  is  the  best  way,1  said  lord  Os- 
siter,  ringing  the  bell ;  for  from  sir  George's 
evident  agitation,  he  imagined  there  must 
be  something  extraordinary  about  Rebecca, 
and  earnestly  wished  to  see  her. 

'Tell  Rebecca  1  want  her,1  said  the  lady 
to  the  servant  that  entered  the  room. 

'For  heaven's  sake,  lady  Ossitcr,' said  siF 
George,  'do  not  shock  the  poor  girl's  feel- 
ings, by  sending  for  her  here.1 

'Oh,  Lord!  she  must  get  the  better  of 
those  feelings  you  talk  about,  or  she  will 
never  be  good  for  much  ;  besides,  it  always 
diverts  me  to  see  her  blush,  and  look  like  a 
fool.' 

1  Rebecca  Littleton  can  never  look  like  a 
fool,  madam,'  cried  sir  George,  with  vehe- 
mence, '  and  since  you  persist  in  sending  for 
her,  you  will  excuse  me  if  J  do  not  stay  to 
see  lady  Ossiter  render  herself  ridiculous, 
by  insulting  a  woman  every  way  her  supe- 
rior, but  in  the  paltry  distinction  of  fortune.' 

He  then  left  the  room,  shutting  the  door 
after  him  with  violence,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments Rebecca  entered. 

How  great  was  the  surprise  of  lord  Ossi- 
ter when  he  beheld  the  strikingly  beautiful 
figure  that  presented  itself  to  his  view  !  Mod- 
7 


74  KEBECCA 

esty  had  recalled  to  her  cheeks  the  rosy  hue 
which  grief  had  chased  from  them.  Her 
fine  eyes  were  timidly  raised  from  the  floor 
to  her  lady's  face,  while,  with  a  gentle  in- 
clination of  the  body,  and  a  voice  of  softest 
harmony,  she  requested  to  know  her  com- 
mands. 

'Nothing  particular,  child;  only  I  was 
mentioning  to  my  brother  the  situation  1 
had  offered  you  in  my  family,  and  he  thinks 
you  are  not  satisfied  with  it.' 

'  Indeed,  madam,  I  am  greatly  obliged  to 
sir  George  for  his  solicitude,  but  must  re- 
quest your  ladyship  to  inform  him  that  while 
1  can  be  so  fortunate  as  to  obtain  your  ap- 
probation, 1  shall  never  be  otherwise  than 
happy,  and  shall  deem  myself  highly  hon- 
ored by  your  protection  as  long  as  your 
ladyship  shall  think  fit  to  extend  it  towards 
me.' 

'Perhaps  you  would  like  to  tell  him  so 
yourself,  child  ?' 

'  By  no  means,  madam.' 

'But  you  are  quite  satisfied,  Rebecca?' 

'Entirely  so,  my  lady,  and  that  satisfac- 
tion will  ever  remain  uninterrupted,  while  1 
am  conscious  of  performing  my  duty.' 

'  Well,  that's  all,'  cried  her  ladyship,  in  a 
half  peevish  accent. 

Rebecca  courtesied,  and  retired. 

1  Well,  and  what  do  you  think  of  her,  my 


REBECCA.  75 

lord?'  cried  the  lady,  turning  to  her  hus- 
band ;  '  why  you  seem  in  a  maze  !' 

'I  am  perfectly  so,  my  dear,'  (endeavor- 
ing to  recollect  himself;)  'but  it  is  because 
I  can't  for  my  soul  conceive  what  George 
can  see  in  this  girl  lo  make  such  a  fuss 
about  her.' 

'Why,  don't  you  think  her  handsome?' 

'No  woman  appears  so  in  my  eyes  when 
your  ladyship  is  by.' 

'  Oh  !  yoirr  vastly  civil  this  morning;  but, 
pray  what  fault  have  you  to  find  with  her 
person  ?' 

'Nay,  nothing  particular;  but  I  think  she 
is  altogether  insipid.' 

'She  is  very  fair.' 

i  Yes,  but  I  was  never  struck  wilh  your 
fair  women;  they  have  not  half  the  expres- 
sion of  your  fine  brunettes.' 

Lady  Ossiier  was  a  very  dark  woman,  and 
could  not  help  at  that  moment  going  to  the 
glass  to  adjust  her  handkerchief. 

'  She  has  fine  eyes,  my  lord.' 

'  Fine  eyes,  oh  !  ridiculous-;  you  may  as 
well  admire  the  blue  glass  beads  stuck  in 
the  head  of  a  wax  doll.  1  don't  see  any 
thing  about  her  even  tolerably  pretty  but 
her  neck  and  shoulders;  they  seem  well 
enough. I 

'This  horrid  mourning  makes  one  look 
like  a  fright,'  cried  (he  lady,  still  looking  in 
the  glass.   '  and   they   have  made  my  gown 


76  REDECCA. 

so  abominably  high,  I  declare  I  appear  quite 
round  shouldered;  it  shall  positively  be  al- 
tered before  I  wear  it  agiiin.' 

'Not  if  1  might  advise,  my  dear;  for  I  de- 
clare 1  never  saw  you  look  better  than  you 
do  this  morning;  and,  in  my  opinion,  women 
inclined  to  em  bon  point  have  more  dignity 
in  iheir  persons  than  the  very  slender;  for 
instance,  now  your  Rebecca j  she  will  al- 
ways remind  me  of  Death  and  Daphne.' 

'Dear,  my  lord,  when  have  I  seen  you  in 
so  agreeable  a  humor?  1  declare  you  arc 
quite  wittj'.' 

'How  can  I  be  otherwise,  my  lady,  when 
T  have  so  good  a  subject  for  ridicule?' 

Her  ladyship  did  not  take  the  keenness  of 
the  sarcasm,  and  retired,  to  give  some  orders 
to  her  woman,  perfectly  satisfied  that  Rebec- 
ca was  infinitely  inferior  to  herself  in  per- 
sonal attractions  ;  while  her  artful  husband 
applauded  himself  for  the  part  he  had  acted, 
which  he  naturally  imagined  would  secure, 
within  the  reach  of  his  power,  a  woman, 
whose  charms  had  made  such  an  impression 
on  his  mind,  that  he  was  resolved  if  possi- 
ble, to  sacrifice  her  a  victim  to  seduction. 

When  sir  George  left  the  parlor,  he  re- 
tired to  his  own  apartment,  and  calling  for 
pen  and  ink,  addressed  the  following  letter 
to  Kebecca  : 

'With  a  heart  fully  sensible  of  the  merit 


REBECCA.  7  7 

of  the  object  I  presume  to  address,  how  is  it 
possible  but  1  must  also  be  sensible  of  the 
fear  of  offending  her?  Pardon  me,  dear 
young  lady,  if  almost  unacquainted  with  the 
thousand  little  delicacies  expected  by  your 
sex  from  those  of  ours,  who  venture  to  offer 
their  friendship  and  assistance  to  innocence 
and  beauty;  pardon  me,  I  say,  if  my  expres- 
sions are  not  sufficiently  denotive  of  my  re- 
spect and  esteem,  while  I  venture  to  ask  if 
the  situation  my  sister  oilers  you  is  perfectly 
consonant  with  your  expectations  and  wish- 
es; yet  1  ought  to  know  the  modesty,  the 
humility  of  your  mind,  will  lead  you  to  tell 
me  it  is. 

1  But,  alas!  1  too  well  know  the  disposi- 
tion of  lady  Ossiter  to  imagine  a  heart  like 
yours,  replete  with  sensibility,  can  enjoy 
any  tolerable  degree  of  tranquillity,  when 
subject  to  hercaprice  and  ill-humor:  I  must 
therefore  entreat  my  lovely  friend  to  accept, 
not  from  me,  but  as  a  legacy  from  my  mo- 
ther (for  I  am  [sure  she  designed  it,  though 
the  sudden  stroke  that  deprived  us  of  her 
prevented  her  putting  her  designs  in  execu- 
tion) the  enclosed  two  thousand  pounds, 
which  will,  at  least,  place  you  above  de- 
pendance  on  the  weak  and  unworthy. 

'  Permit  me  also  to  assure  you,  dear,  ami- 
able Miss  Littleton,  that,  in  every  future  pe- 
riod of  my  life,  1  shall  be  happy  to  convince 
you  how  much  I  am  interested  iri  your  wel- 


78  REBECCA. 

fare,  and  that  nothing  would  give  me  more 
sincere  pleasure,  than  being  allowed  to  de- 
vote my  life  and  fortune  to  the  promotion  of 
your  felicity. 

'  I  am,  with  every  token  of  esteem  and  re- 
spect, your  friend, 

GEORGE    WORTHY.' 

Rebecca  could  not  read  this  letter  without 
emotion;  yet  did  she  not  hesitate  what  an- 
swer to  return  ;  the  letter  itself  she  careful- 
ly locked  up  in  her  cabinet,  but  the  bank 
bills  she  sealed  up  in  the  following  note: 

'  Rebecca  Littleton  returns  her  most  grate- 
ful acknowledgments  to  sir  George  Worthy 
for  the  kind  solicitude  he  evinces  for  her 
happiness.  She  begs  leave  to  return  his 
noble  present,  which  she  cannot  think  of  ac- 
cepting, as  it  would  lay  her  under  an  obli- 
gation too  oppressive  to  a  spirit  which  sir 
George  is  mistaken  in  thinking  humble.  Re- 
becca feels  herself  highly  satisfied  in  the 
protection  of  lady  Ossiter,  and.  though  she 
feels  grateful  for  the  offered  friendship  of 
the  son  of  her  ever  lamented  benefactress, 
she  must  beg  leave  to  decline  it,  as  the  vast 
distance  fortune  has  placed  between  them 
renders  it  impossible  to  cultivate  true  friend- 
ship, which  can  only  subsist  between  per- 
sons on  an  equality  with  each  other.  Re- 
becca wishes  to  be  retained  in  the  memorv 


REBECCA.  79 

of  sir  George  only  as  the  servant  of  his  sis- 
ter, and,  at  the  same  time  assures  him,  the 
son  of  lady  Mary  Worthy  will  ever  be  re- 
tained in  her  mind  with  fervent  wishes  for 
his  happiness.' 

When  she  had  sent  away  this  note,  she 
again  read  over  sir  George's  letter;  a  tear 
almost  unknown  to  herself,  fell  on  it  as  she 
perused  with  attention  his  offers  of  friend- 
ship: but  she  soon  recollected  herself,  has- 
tily brushed  away  the  token  of  her  weak- 
ness, and,  returning  the  letter  to  her  cabi- 
net, began  to  prepare  for  her  removal  to 
town  whither  lady  Ossiter  intended  return- 
ing the  next  day. 

'What  a  noble  mind  is  here  displayed!" 
said  sir  George,  as  he  read  Rebecca's  note. 
'  How  much  does  this  woman's  sentiments 
clevaLe  her  above  the  station  in  which  Prov- 
idence has  placed  her!  I  fear  my  letter  was 
not  dictated  with  sufficient  delicacy;  her 
pride  has  taken  the  alarm,  that  laudable 
pride  that  is  a  woman's  best  safeguard:  but 
no  matter,  1  will  not  write  again,  but  wait 
till  I  can  discover  in  what  manner  my  sister 
behaves  to  her.  When  she  has  tried  her 
new  situation,  she  may  not  find  it  so  easy  as 
her  little  knowledge  of  the  world  at  present 
leads  her  to  imagine.  When  she  finds  her- 
self uncomfortable,  then,  perhaps,  the  offer 
of  friendship  from  me  will  be  more  accept- 
able.' 


80  REBECCA. 

In  the  evening  sir  George  having  no  in- 
clination to  join  the  insipid  chat  of  lord  and 
lady  Ossiter,  pleaded  letters  to  write,  and 
went  into  the  library  to  look  for  a  book  that 
would  afford  him  an  hour's  rational  amuse- 
ment. As  he  entered  the  room,  he  saw  Re- 
becca busily  employed  in  retouching  a  small 
drawing  that  lay  before  her,  and  he  ob- 
served that  she  frequently  looked  at  a  por- 
trait of  his  mother  that  hung  over  the  chim- 
ney. 

'  I  disturb  you,  I  fear,  Miss  Littleton.' 

'By  no  means,  sir,'  said  she,  rising  visi- 
bly embarrassed  ;  '  I  was  just  going.  Indeed, 
my  being  here  is  an  intrusion,  1  must  entreat 
you  to  pardon.' 

'  1  shall  be  extremely  sorry  if  Miss  Little- 
ton should  consider  herself  an  intruder  in 
any  apartment  in  this  house.  You  were 
drawing,  will  you  permit  me  to  see  your 
performance?' 

'You  will  smile  at  my  presumption,  sir; 
but  I  have  been  endeavoring  to  catch  some 
faint  resemblance  of  my  regretted  lady, 
that  should  any  thing  separate  me  from  her 
daughter's  service,  1  might  have  it  in  my 
power  sometimes  to  gaze  on  her  beloved 
features  and  weep.' 

'You  have  been  happy  in  preserving  the 
likeness  :  but,  I  think,  I  have  a  miniature  of 
my  mother,  the  most  striking  thing  of  the 
kind  I  ever  saw.* 


REBECCA.  81 

He  then  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small 
case,  which  contained  lady  Mary's  picture, 
elegantly  set  with  brilliants,  intermixed  with 
pearls.  It  had  been  set  as  a  present  for  la- 
dy Osaiter;  but  as  the  lady  knew  not  of  her 
brother's  design,  he  thought  he  might  now 
dispose  of  it  more  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

1  Will  Miss  Littleton  honor  me  so  far,'  said 
he,  taking  it  from  the  case,  'as  to  wear  this 
picture  for  the  sake  of  her  whose  resem- 
blance it  bears?' 

'The  picture  of  itself,  sir  George,  would 
be  to  me  an  invaluable  treasure  ;  but  its  or- 
naments are  so  superb  and  costly,  you  will 
pardon  me  if  I  decline  the  acceptance  of  it.' 

'Why  will  you  mortify  me  by  this  refus- 
al? You  treat  me  very  unkindly,  Miss  Lit- 
tleton, since  even  my  mother's  picture  is  not 
acceptable  from  my  hands!' 

*  Indeed,  sir,  you  are  mistaken,  and,  to 
convince  you  I  am  not  ungrateful,  was  that 
picture  divested  of  its  rich  ornaments,  I 
would  accept  it  cheerfully,  and  wear  it,  not 
only  for  her  sake,  but  for  your  own.' 

'Charming,  engaging  woman  !'  exclaimed 
he,  catching  her  hand,  'why  are  you  thus 
irresistibly  lovely,  and  yet  refuse  me  the 
satisfaction  of  placing  you  above  the  malice 
of  fortune  ?' 

She  blushed  carnation  deep,  as  she  at- 
tempted to  withdraw  her  hand;  but  a  smile 


32  REBECCA. 

dimpled  on  her  cheek,  and  her  heart  peep- 
ed forth  from  her  tell-tale  eyes. 

'You  make  me  smile,'  said  she,  'to  hear 
you  talk  of  the  malice  of  fortune.  We,  who 
arc  born  in  an  humble  station,  cannot  feel 
the  want  of  luxuries  which  we  never  enjoy- 
ed. Happiness  is  not  always  annexed  to 
wealth,  or  misery  to  poverty.  We  arc  all 
poor  or  rich  by  comparison,  and  my  situa- 
tion, vvhich  is  to  you  an  object  of  compas- 
sion, would  be  to  thousands  the  summit  of 
felicity;  but  your  condescension  makes  me 
forget  myself:  1  wish  you  a  good  night.' 

'Stay  one  momeni,  adorable  Rebecca!' 
cried  sir  George,  stopping  her  as  she  was 
about  to  leave  the  room.  'Hear  me,  1  en- 
treat you,  with  attention;  by  heavens,  you 
shall  not  go  into  the  service  of  lady  Ossiter, 
nor  into  any  service.  I  am  }'Our  slave  ;  my 
life,  my  fortune,  all  are  yours.  1  love  you 
more  than  existence  itself.  1  mean  not  to 
offend  your  delicacy.  My  designs  arc  of 
the  most  honorable  nature.  Name  your  own 
time,  1  will  wait  with  patience.  Only  suffer 
me  to  tell  my  sister,  that  the  woman  whom 
1  aspire  to  the  honor  of  making  my  wife, 
must  henceforth  be  treated  with  that  respect 
her  worth  and  virtue  demands.' 

'  Hold,  hold,  dear  sir  George,'  cried  she. 
pale  and  trembling.  '  I  must  hear  no  more. 
You  honor  me,  highly  honor  me  by  these 
professions  of  regard  :  but  you  talk  of  im- 


REBECCA.  83 

possibilities.  The  humble  Rebecca  Little- 
ton, however  sensible  of  your  merits,  can 
never  be  your  wife;  insurmountable  obsta- 
cles are  placed  between  us.' 

'  If  your  bosom,  lovely  Rebecca,  glows 
with  sensibility,  every  obstacle  is  easily  re- 
moved.' 

'  Do  not  interrupt  me,'  said  she.  The  ob- 
stacles I  speak  of  can  never  be  removed ; 
my  vows  are  already  pledged ;  they  are  re- 
gistered in  heaven;  'tis  sacrilege  to  listen  to 
your  declaration.' 

Sir  George  dropped  her  hand,  and,  with  a 
look  of  mingled  horror  and  surprise,  cried, 
'Are  you  already  married  ?' 

'No,'  replied  she  faintly,  '  not  married.' 

'Then  you  sport  with  my  misery,  cruel, 
cruel  girl !' 

'Alas!'  said  she,  with  a  look  of  tender- 
ness, 'heaven  knows  I  do  not.  1  would  give 
worlds,  did  1  possess  them,  to  save  you  from 
one  hour's  anguish ;  but,  ah !  sir  George, 
mine  is  a  wayward  fate:  my  bosom  is  hea- 
vy laden  with  sorrow.  Ah!  do  not  increase 
that  sorrow  by  letting  me  see  you  partake^it.' 

'Then,'  cried  he,  starting  from  his  seat, 
4  then  you  do  not  hate  me?' 

'  Hate  you,  oh  !  no,  that  were  impossible."' 

'Then  we  may  yet  be  happy,'  said  he, 
catching  her  in  his  arms. 

Rebecca's  heart  had  almost  betrayed  her; 
but  she  was  sensible  this  must  be  the  mo- 


34  REBECCA, 

ment  of  victory.  She  pushed  him  from  her, 
and  assuming  an  air  of  reserve, '  Sir  George,' 
said  she, 'if  you  wish  my  happiness  there  is 
but  one  way  by  which  you  can  promote  it, 
that  is,  by  never  more  speaking  to  me  on 
this  subject;  my  fate  is  irrevocably  fixed; 
cease  then  to  disturb  my  felicity  by  endeav- 
oring to  awaken  my  sensibility.  You,  sir 
George,  are  designed  by  heaven  to  move  in 
an  exalted  station.  You  have  many  duties 
to  fulfil,  which  it  will  be  almost  criminal  to 
neglect.  For  me,  unknowing  and  unknown 
by  the  world,  if  I  can  but  pass  through  life 
blameless,  my  utmost  wish  is  gratified.' 

'Will  you  then  leave  me,'  said  he,  'and 
leave  me  devoid  of  hope  ?' 

'  No,  sir,  1  will  endeavor  to  cheer  your 
bosom  with  the  same  hope  that  animates 
mine.  I  hope,  sincerely,  you  will  soon  meet 
a  woman  your  equal  in  birth,  fortune,  and 
merit,  who  will  obliterate  from  your  mind 
all  traces  of  Rebecca  ;  and  may  you,  united 
by  the  most  sacred  ties,  enjoy  in  her  socie- 
ty every  blessing  that  heaven  can  bestow, 
or  you  desire.' 

'No,  Rebecca,  no;  do  not  indulge  so  vain 
an  idea,  for  while  you  live,  and  remain  un- 
married, never  shall  the  hymeneal  torch  be 
lighted  by  me.' 

'  Ah  !'  cried  she,  forcing  a  smile,  'you  talk 
wildly;  we  shall  hear  you  tell  a  diftererff 
tale  shortly.' 


REBECCA  85 

'But  will  you  not  accept  the  picture  as  a 
token  of  my  esteem  ?' 

He  held  it  towards  her.  She  put  his  hand 
back,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  displeasure,  'I 
can  accept  no  diamonds,  sir  George,  and,  for 
heaven's  sak.e,  detain  me  no  longer  here.  1 
have  acted  very  improperly  in  talking  with 
you  so  long;  but  1  will  take  care  this  shall 
be  our  last  interview.'1 

She  then  courtesied  slightly,  and  retired 
to  her  apartment,  where  conscious  rectitude 
alone  alleviated  the  pangs  of  disappointed 
love. 

'  Yes,'  said  she, '  I  have  done  right ;  an  un- 
ion with  sir  George  would  by  no  means  in- 
sure me  permanent  felicity;  he  is  young, 
volatile,  and  possessed  of  violent  passions. 
Alas!  when  the  novelty  of  my  person  was 
worn  off,  I  might  cease  to  charm,  and  how 
could  I  endure  his  neglect?  Besides,  how  ill 
could  my  heart  bear  that  he  should  be  sul> 
ject  to  the  sneers  of  his  acquaintance  on  my 
account.  Oh!  my  dear  lady  Mary,  you 
knew  what  was  best  for  nie,  and  never  will 
I  forget  your  injunctions.' 


86  REBECCA. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

1  And  pray  what  do  you  think  of  my  la- 
dy V  said  Mrs  Lappet  to  Rebecca,  the  eve- 
ning of  her  arrival  in  Bedford-Square. 

Lappet  was  an  experienced  abigail.  She 
had  lived  with  lady  Ossitcr  from  the  time  of 
her  marriage,  and  could  not,  without  envy, 
behold  Rebecca  introduced  into  the  family, 
as  she  feared  she  might  have  a  gown  or  two 
less  in  the  year,  or,  perhaps,  Rebecca  might 
supplant  her  entirely.  This  jealousy  made 
her  resolve  to  cultivate  an  intimacy  with  the 
unsuspecting  girl,  and  be  the  most  forward 
in  showing  her  civilities,  that  she  might  win 
her  confidence,  and  obtain  her  real  opinion 
concerning  her  lady,  and  then  betray  her. 
Lappet,  when  she  had  any  favorite  point  to 
gain,  could  assume  a  most  insinuating  man- 
ner. The  words  that  fell  from  her  tongue 
were  smooth  and  pleasant  as  the  river's  sur- 
face unruffled  by  a  breeze:  but  like  that, 
when  the  whirlwind  of  passion  arose,  dis- 
played the  most  frightful  contrast. 

'And  what  do  you  think  of  my  lady?" 
said  she,  as  she  was  taking  her  tea  in  Re- 
becca's apartment. 

'  1  hardly  know  what  to  think  yet,'  replied 
Rebecca.  '  I  never  judge  very  hastily.  She 
appears  extremely  good  natured.' 

*  Ah!  my  dear,  you  will  know   her  better 


REBECCA.  87 

by  and  by;  there  is  a  deal  of  difference  be- 
tween old  servants  and  new  ones.' 

'  1  should  be  much  obliged  to  you,  Mrs 
Lappet,  to  give  me  some  little  idea  of  the 
best  method  to  obtain  her  approbation/ 

'  Indeed,  that  is  more  than  is  in  my  power, 
child,  for  what  pleases  today  may  displease 
tomorrow:  1  never  give  myself  much  trou- 
ble about  it.    How  do  you  like  the  children  V 

'They  are  very  fine  boys;  but  I  am  most 
pleased  with  Miss  Ossiter;  she  seems  ex- 
tremely mild  and  engaging.' 

'Well,  you  are  the  first  person  I  ever 
heard  say  they  liked  her  best.  My  lady 
can't  bear  her;  she  says  she  is  so  stupid — ' 

'1  think  it  is  very  wrong,'  said  Rebecca, 
in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  'for  mothers 
to  make  any  distinction  in  their  regard  for 
their  children  ;  and  I  shall  consider  myself 
doubly  obliged  to  be  kind  and  affectionate 
to  Miss,  if  her  mamma  is  unkind  to  her.' 

'  It  shows  the  goodness  of  your  heart,  my 
dear  ma'am,' said  Lappet,  beginning  to  see  a 
little  into  the  disposition  of  our  heroine. 
'But,  pray,  have  you  seen  my  lord  yet?' 

-'Yes,  once  at  Twickenham.' 

'Well,  don't  you  think  him  a  vast  hand- 
some man?' 

'  He  is  well  enough,'  said  she,  carelessly  ; 
4  but  sir  George  Worthy  is,  in  my  opinion,  a 
great  deal  handsomer.' 

'  Lord  Ossiter  is  a  man  of  gallantry,  tho\ 


88  REBECCA. 

I  assure  you,  ]  must  tell  you,  but  it  is  be- 
tween ourselves,  he  once  made  proposals 
to  me.' 

'Indeed!  Well,  1  think  you  were  right  to 
refuse  him;  disproportionate  marriages  are 
seldom  happy.' 

4  Oh  !  Lord,  ray  dear,  it  was  not  for  mar- 
riage, I  assure  you;  it  was  since  I  lived  with 
my  lady.' 

'Good  heaven !'  cried  Rebecca,  with  a 
look  of  surprise,'  what  since  he  has  been 
married?' 

'Yes,  but  I  would  not  have  you  mention 
it,  he  offered  me  three  hundred  a  year.' 

'And  how  could  you  remain  in  the  fam- 
ily after  such  an  affront,  Mrs  Lappet?' 

'Why,  I  thought  it  was  a  pity  to  lose  my 
place,  so  I  kept  my  gentleman  at  a  proper 
distance,  and  he  dropped  the  pursuit:  but 
come,  ma'am,  let  us  hurry  the  nursery  maid 
to  put  Miss  and  the  young  gentlemen  to  bed, 
and  then  we  will  go  down  and  take  a  game 
at  cards  in  the  housekeeper's  room.' 

'  You  will  excuse  me,  Mrs  Lappet:  I  nev- 
er played  a  game  at  cards  in  my  life;  be- 
sides, my  lady  has  given  me  some  muslin  to 
spot,  and  I  must  set  about  it.' 

'Lord  !  child,  you'll  have  enough  to  do  if 
you  humor  her  by  working  of  an  evening.' 

'  It  is  my  duty  to  do  all  that  is  in  my  pow- 
er, and  1  had  rather  work  than  sit  still.' 

'  Well,  then,  bring  down  your  work,  you 


REBECCA.  89 

will  be  moped  to  death  sitting  here  by  your- 
self.' 

'Oh!  dear,  no,  I  shall  not:  I  am  never 
lonely.  1  work  very  fast,  and  when  I  have 
clone  a  good  bit  1  can  take  up  a  book  and 
readk  1  had  rather  not  go  down  if  you  will 
excuse  me.' 

'Just  as  you  please,  ma'am,'  said  Lappet. 
*We  shall  be  glad  of  your  company,  but  if 
you  prefer  being  alone — ' 

She  courtesied  ironically,  tossed  her  head, 
and  left  Rebecca  to  the  enjoyment  of  her 
own  reflections,  while  she  entertained  her 
fellow-servants  with  the  pride,  conceit,  and 
ignorance  of  the  new-comer.  '  I  tried  to  get 
her  down  amongst  us  that  we  might  have  a 
little  fun  with  her,'  said  she,  'for  you  would 
laugh  to  hear  how  foolishly  she  talks.  She 
will  not  stay  here  long,  take  my  word  for  it.' 

At  least,  Mrs  Lappet  had  resolved  in  her 
own  mind,  to  use  every  exertion  to  displace 
her  from  a  family  where,  she  was  fearful, 
her  beauty,  innocence  and  worth,  would  at- 
tract the  notice  of  one,  whose  devoirs  she 
considered  as  entirely  due  to  herself. 

For,  to  own  the  truth,  Mrs  Lappet  had  not 
been  quite  so  deaf  to  the  proposals  of  her 
lord,  as  she  had  represented  to  Rebecca, 
though  she  had  rather  made  a  mistake  in 
saying  his  lordship  offered  a  settlement,  that 
being  a  measure  earnestly  desired  by  her- 
self, but  which   she  could  find   no  means  to 


90  REBECCA. 

bring  lord  Ossiter  into;  indeed  he  had  found 
her  too  easy  a  conquest  to  indulge  a  thought 
of  putting  himself  to  much  expense  or  trou-* 
ble  on  her  account. 

The  next  morning  when  lady  Ossiter  had 
breakfasted,  she  went  immediately  to  the 
nursery,  a  thing  she  had  not  been  know  to 
do  for  many  months  before;  but  Rebecca 
was  a  novelty,  and  therefore  demanded  from 
her  lady  some  little  attention:  as  Rebecca 
had  been  told  that  her  lady  seldom,  if  ever, 
came  into  the  children's  apartment,  the  visit 
was  entirely  unexpected,  and  lady  Ossiter 
found  her  busily  employed  in  arranging 
some  pencils  and  crayons  in  a  small,  but  el- 
egant, drawing-box,  which  had  been  given 
her  by  her  late  benefactress. 

She  arose,  and  apologized  for  the  confu- 
sion her  drawings,  &c.  which  had  fallen  on 
the  floor,  had  made  in  the  apartment;  'Had 
I  been  aware  your  ladyship  intended  this 
honor — ,' 

'Oh!  never  mind,  child,'  cried  the  lady, 
with  a  look  of  infinite  good  humor,  which  no 
woman  knew  better  how  to  assume  than  la- 
dy Ossiter;  '  1  did  not  come  to  disturb  you, 
but  1  thought  1  should  like  you  to  hear  the 
children  read.' 

'  Have  they  ever  been  taught  their  letters, 
madam  ?' 

'Why,  upon  my  word,  1  cannot  tell;  I  be- 
lieve Charles  can  tell  them  when  he  sees 


REBECCA.  9  1 

them  :  I  have  tried  him  sometimes  by  tak- 
ing up  the  newspaper  when  he  was  in  the 
room;  but  do  not  believe  Lucy  or  James 
know  any  thing  about  it;  but  call  them  in, 
and  let  us  see  what  they  can  do.' 

Rebecca,  who  had  about  two  hours  before 
seen  them  all  neatly  dressed,  and  given  them 
their  breakfast,  opened  the  adjoining  room 
to  call  them,  when  how  great  was  her  sur- 
prise when  she  saw  the  eldest  boy,  who  was 
eight  years  old,  with  two  or  three  color 
shells  before  him,  several  brushes  and  a  ba- 
son of  water,  with  which  he  had  not  been 
satisfied  to  daub  several  sheets  of  paper, 
and  his  own  clothes,  but  also  his  brother 
and  sister's  hands,  faces  and  frocks !  Infinite- 
ly chagrined  that  they  should  be  seen  by 
their  mother  in  such  a  condition,  she  turned 
mildly  towards  the  nursery-maid,  and  ask- 
ed '  how  she  could  be  so  neglectful  as  not  to 
mind  what  the  children  were  doing?' 

'Mind  them  yourself,  ma'am,'  was  the  an- 
swer: '  1  thought  you  came  to  help  me,  not 
to  command  me.1 

'I  shall  for  the  future  mind  them,'  said 
she,  attempting  to  take  the  brushes  from 
Master  Ossiter. 

1  You  shall  not  have  them,'  screamed  he: 
'I  will  paint  when  1  please;  mamma  says  I 
shall.'      v 

Rebecca  persisted  in  removing  from  his 
reach  the  shells  and  water,  when  setting  up 


92  REBECCA. 

a  scream  like  a  Bedlamite,  he  threw  one, 
which  he  had  retained  in  his  hand,  full  in 
her  face. 

'What  is  the  matter?'  cried  lady  Ossiter, 
opening  the  door.  'Come  hither,  Charles; 
what  do  they  do  to  you,  my  love?' 

'  She  will  not  let  me  play.  She  has  taken 
away  my  paints,  and  will  not  let  me  do  any 
thing.' 

'But  she  shall  let  you  do  as  you  please,' 
said  the  mother,  kissing  him,  '  so  do  not  cry.' 

At  that  moment  another  scream,  from  the 
inner  apartment,  vibrated  into  her  ladyship's 
ears,  and  Master  James,  and  Miss  Ossiter 
came  bellowing  into  the  room,  '  that  the  new 
maid  would  wash  their  faces.1 

'Heaven  save  me,'  said  the  lady,  'from 
often  visiting  the  nursery!  You  are  enough 
to  drive  one  mad.  1  had  hoped,  indeed, 
that  you,  Rebecca,  would  have  managed 
them  better  than  to  have  had  all  this  uproar  ; 
but  I  see  servants  are  all  alike;  they  have 
no  more  notion  about  the  management  of 
children  than  natural  fools:  why,  1  will  an- 
swer for  it,  if  1  had  time,  1  could  make  these 
children  do  just  as  I  please,  without  any  of 
this  roaring.  Do  you  not  think,  Charles, 
you  would  always  mind  me?' 

'Oh!  yes,  mamma;  you  never  contradict 
me,  but  give  me  every  thing  1  want.' 

'  Well,  go,  my  dear,  go  to  Rebecca  and 
have  your  face  washed,  and  you  shall  go  out 


REBECCA  93 

in  the  coach,  and  buy  some  more  paints. — 
Do,  child,  put  James  and  Miss  Ossiter  on 
clean  frocks,  and  get  yourself  ready  to  go 
out  with  them.  I  will  hear  them  read  an- 
other time  ;  poor  dears,  they  have  been  vex- 
ed enough  this  morning:'  then  taking  her 
favorite's  hand,  to  lead  him  out  of  the  room, 
she  stooped,  and  picked  up  two  or  three  of 
Rebecca's  drawings.  '  Here,  my  love,'  said 
she  i  ask  your  maid  to  give  you  these  pretty 
pictures.' 

Rebecca  was  too  meek  to  contradict,  and 
he  marched  off  with  her  two  best  perform- 
ances in  his  hand. 

In  about  ten  minutes  a  footman  tapped  at 
the  door,  to  inform  her  that  the  chariot  wait- 
ed, and  that  she  must  go  to  her  lady's  dres- 
sing-room for  Master  Ossiter. 

Rebecca,  who  had  been  accustomed  to 
peace  and  regularity,  was  distracted  by  the 
:hurry  and  confusion  she  had  been  thrown 
into;  but  flattering  herself  it  would  be  bet- 
ter next  day,  she  made  all  the  Inste  she 
could,  and  repaired  to  the  dressing-room, 
where,  on  a  sofa,  beside  his  mamma,  sat 
Master  Ossiter,  with  a  pair  of  gold  bowed 
scissars,  cutting  the  houses,  trees,  and  fig- 
ures from  her  drawings,  which  her  ladyship 
was  amusing  herself  by  placing  in  a  kind  of 
fantastic  medley  on  the  table  before  her. 

4  See,  Rebecca,'  cried  she,  'we  have  dis- 


94  REBECCA. 

patched  those  pretty  pictures,  I  dare  say,  a 
deal  quicker  than  you  made  them.' 

Rebecca  smiled  faintly;  but  she  felt  a 
cold  chill  strike  to  her  heart.  'Alas!  lady 
Mary  would  not  have  done  so,1  sighed  she, 
softly,  as  she  followed  the  children  down 
stairs,  and  a  tear  started  in  her  eye,  which 
she  was  unable  to  suppress. 

'Drive  to  the  toy-shop,'  said  Master  Os- 
siter,  as  the  man  shut  the  chariot-door,  '  and 
see  what  mamma  has  given  me,'  continued 
he,  pulling  half  a  guinea  from  his  pocket, 
and  showing  it  to  his  brother  and  sister; 
'and  1  am  to  lay  it  out  just  as  I  please.' 

As  the  chariot  stopped  at  the  shop  door,  a 
poor  man,  pale,  and  emaciated,  with  but  one 
leg,  took  off'  his  hat,  bowed,  but  did  not 
speak. 

'Look  at  that  poor  man,  my  dear,' said 
Rebecca  ;  '  he  would  be  thankful  for  a  small 
part  of  your  money ;  suppose  you  were  to 
give  him  a  shilling.1 

'What  should  1  give  him  a  shilling  for?1 
said  the  child. 

'Because  he  is  in  great  distress;  see  how 
pale  he  looks,  and  what  a  thin  ragged  coat 
he  has  on  this  cold  day  V 

'Well,  what  is  that  to  me?1 

'  Suppose,  Master  Ossiter,  you  were  cold 
and  hungry  ?' 

'That  you  know  is  impossible,' 

'  Impossible!  sir.1 


REBECCA.  95 

'  Yes,  to  be  sure  ;  a'nt  I  a  lord's  son,  and 
shall  not  1  be  a  lord  myself,  if  I  live  long 
enough?  and  you  know  lords  are  never 
poor.1 

'Then  it  is  more  their  duty  to  relieve 
those  that  are.' 

1  Duty  !'  said  he,  staring  in  her  face ;  '  mam- 
ma never  gives  any  thing  to  poor  folks;  she 
says  they  should  be  all  sent  to  prison,  and 
made  to  work.' 

This  dialogue  had  passed  in  the  shop,  and 
the  miserable  object  of  it  was  still  at  the 
door.  Miss  Ossiter  put  her  little  hand  in- 
stinctively into  her  pocket. 

4  If  I  had  any  money!  but  mamma  don't 
very  often  give  me  any.'  Then  approach- 
ing Rebecca,  in  a  kind  of  half  whisper, 'if 
you,  ma'am,  will  give  the  poor  man  half  a 
crown,  I  will  ask  my  uncle  for  one  to  pay 
you  with  the  first  time  I  see  him.' 

Rebecca  gazed  on  the  child  as  she  was 
speaking,  and  she  fancied  she  beheld  her 
grandmother's  benevolence  play  about  her 
infant  countenance.  She  caught  her  in  her 
arms,  gave  her  the  desired  half  crown,  and 
joy  for  a  moment  animated  her  bosom,  when 
she  beheld  both  the  beggar  and  his  little 
benefactress  look  equally  happy. 

A  few  days  afker  this,  lady  Ossiter  sent 
for  Rebecca  in  haste,  to  her  dressing-room. 
'You  seem  to  have  some  taste  for  drawing, 
child,'  said  she, '  pray  can  you  paint  flowers  V 


96  REBECCA. 

'  A  little,  madam.1 

'Well,  now  I  want  you  to  do  something 
for  me;  I  last  night  saw  the  most  beautiful 
painted  trimming,  and  I'll  take  you  to  a  shop 
this  morning  where  you  shall  see  some  iikc 
it ;  if  you  think  you  can  do  it  1  shall  be  vast- 
ly pleased,  for  there  is  a  ball  next  week.T 

'But  your  ladyship  is  in  mourning,'  said 
she,  blushing  for  her  lady's  foil}'. 

'Oh,  la!  well,  1  protest  1  forgot  that,  but 
now,  1  dare  say  you  could  fancy  me  some- 
thing pretty  in  black  and  white;  do  try, 
child:  I  shall  change  my  mourning  in  about 
a  month,  and  I  think  you  can  do  it  in  that 
time.' 

'  If  I  knew  what  would  please  your  lady- 
ship.' 

'Do  it  according  to  your  own  taste  and  I 
am  sure  it  will  be  pretty.' 

The  good  nalured  Rebecca  was  willing  to 
please  to  the  utmost  of  her  power,  but,  alas  ! 
that  power  was  far  from  adequate  to  the 
many  tasks  imposed  upon  her.  Mrs  Lap- 
pet was  a  great  favorite,  therefore  often  ask- 
ed leave  to  go  out,  and  then  Rebecca  was 
summoned  to  attend  the  toilette  of  her  la- 
dy, and  indeed  her  taste  and  judgment  in  the 
arrangement  of  female  ornaments  was  so  el- 
egant, that  lady  Ossiter  never  appeared  to 
greater  advantage  than  when  dressed  by 
her  hands. 

Then  was  a  morning  cap  to  be  made,  or 


REBECCA.  97 

a  dress  fresh  trimmed,  they  were  all  brought 
to  Rebecca;  and  did  her  ladyship  ever  ask 
for  any  thing  that  was  not  ready,  the  answer 
was,  indeed,  my  lady,  1  gave  it  to  Rebecca, 
two  or  three  days  ago,  but  she  is  such  a  fine 
lady,  and  spends  so  much  time  at  her  book 
and  her  music. 

In  the  mean  time  our  fair  heroine  was  sa- 
crificing her  health  to  the  vain  hope  of  ob- 
taining the  approbation  of  her  lady,  she  had 
not  a  moment  for  the  most  trifling  relaxa- 
tion ;  but  obliged  to  rise  early  on  account 
of  the  children,  for  the  nursery-maid  impos- 
ed upon  her  good  nature,  and  left  her  en- 
tirely to  dress  and  undress  them.  Mrs  Lap- 
pet would,  if  in  the  least  indisposed,  retire 
to  rest,  and  leave  Rebecca  to  sit  up  for  her 
lady,  who,  addicted  to  the  fashionable  vice 
of  gaming,  was  often  from  home  till  four, 
five,  nay,  sometimes  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing; and  when  she  had  ill  luck,  would  re- 
turn in  the  most  diabolical  humor,  and  vent 
that  spleen  which  politeness  obliged  her  to 
conceal  in  company,  on  her  meek  unoffend- 
ing attendant;  indeed  to  such  a  height  did 
she  suffer  her  passion  to  rise,  that  Rebecca, 
on  hearing  the  knocker  announce  her  arriv- 
al, would  fall  into  such  a  fit  of  trembling, 
that  she  was  scarcely  able  to  stand  while 
she  undressed  her. 

But  the  reader  must  not  suppose  that,  du- 
ring this  period,  either  sir  George  or  lord 
9 


98  REBECCA. 

Ossiter  had  forgotten  her;  the  former  had 
written  her  several  letters,  which  she  re- 
turned unopened  ;  for,  said  she,  conscious 
as  I  am  of  my  own  weakness,  why  should  I 
wilfully  expose  it  to  trials  it  may  not  be  able 
to  withstand.  At  length,  wearied  out  with 
her  inflexible  resolution,  he  determined  to 
take  a  trip  to  the  continent,  and  endeavor 
to  banish  her  from  his  thoughts ;  but  before 
he  went  he  determined  to  put  it  in  her  power 
•  to  leave  his  sister  whenever  her  situation 
became  painful,  without  being  obliged  to 
have  recourse  to  servitude  again.  And  Mrs 
Harley  was  the  person  he  determined  to 
employ  on  this  occasion. 

Lord  Ossiter  had  made  frequent  attempts 
to  see  and  converse  with  Rebecca,  but  she 
was  so  much  in  the  apartment  with  the  chil- 
dren, or  in  her  lady's  dressing-room,  with 
Lappet,  that  he  found  it  more  difficult  than 
he  at  first  imagined,  and  he  was  too  cautious 
in  his  affairs  of  gallantly  to  use  pen  and 
paper. 

One  morning,  as  she  was  intently  engaged 
in  completing  the  trimming  we  have  men- 
tioned, Mrs  Harley  unexpectedly  entered 
the  room. 

A  faint  gleam  of  pleasure  animated  the 
countenance,  and  beamed  from  the  eyes  of 
Rebecca,  as  she  arose  to  receive  this  faith- 
ful servant  of  lady  Mary. 

'  Mrs  Harley,'  said  she,  taking  her  cordi*- 


KEBECCA.  9& 

ally  by  the  hand,  'to  what  am  I  to  attribute 
this  unexpected  pleasure?' 

Struck  with  her  pallid  cheeks  and  alter- 
ed air,  Harley  first  brushed  oft'  a  starting 
tear,  and  then  disclosed  her  errand. 

'  I  come,  my  dear  Miss,  from  my  good 
young  master — ' 

'If  to  bring  me  a  letter,'  said  she,  inter- 
rupting her, '  1  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me — ' 

'My  dear  child,'  said  Harley,  'don't  fly 
out  in  this  manner,  but  listen  to  me  atten- 
tively;  1  have  children  of  my  own,  Miss 
Littleton,  and  heaven  forbid  1  should  ever 
advise  a  young  creature  to  a  wrong  step! 
Trust  me,  I  am  actuated  only  by  friendship 
when  1  entreat  you  to  inform  me  what  mo- 
tives you  have  for  thus  obstinately  refusing 
the  offers  of  a  man  of  rank  and  fortune,  who 
loves  you  honorably  and  sincerely  ?' 

'Do  not  ask  me,  my  dear  Harley;  do  not 
let  us  talk  on  this  subject.' 

'  We  will  talk  on  no  other  then,  for  sure  I 
am  there  must  be  some  powerful  reason  for 
3'our  conduct.  Is  your  heart  otherwise  en- 
gaged ?  Does  want  of  fortune  prevent  your 
happiness  ?' 

'  Ah,  no !  no!  my   friend,'  cried   she,   her 
head  falling  on  Harley's  shoulder,  and  her 
xeyes  filling  with  tears  ;  '  I  am  unhappy  be- 
cause I  am  not  insensible.' 

'You  talk  in  riddles,  my  dear;  if  you  arc 
not  insensible ' 


100  REBECCA. 

'Oh,  stop!  stop!  you  must  say  no  more, 
unless  you  mean  to  break  my  heart;  for, 
alas!  Harley,  the  last  time  1  saw  my  dear 
departed  lady  Mary,  I  promised  her,  sol- 
emnly promised  her,  by  every  hope  of  fe- 
licity, never  to  listen  to  any  overture  of  love 
from  sir  George;  and  never,  no  never  while 
1  retain  the  least  remembrance  of  what  is 
past,  will  I  break  a  vow  so  solemnly  given.' 

'This  family  pride,'  said  Harley,  'was 
the  only  foible  my  lady  had.1 

'  She  had  no  foible,'  said  Rebecca,  '  it  was 
a  wish  to  insure  my  felicity  alone,  prompted 
the  request.' 

'  Whatever  was  her  motive,  my  dear  Miss, 
promises  when  once  made  should  be  invio- 
lably observed  ;  I  will,  therefore,  say  no 
more  to  you  on  the  subject:  sir  George, 
since  satisfied  you  will  not  accept  his  offers, 
is  resolved  next  Monday  to  leave  England.' 

Rebecca  turned  pale  and  Harley  con- 
tinued. 

'  He  means  to  spend  the  winter  on  the 
continent,  but  has  desired  you  will  accept 
his  mother's  picture,  which  he  has  had  fresh 
set  for  you,  and  this  trifle,'  laying  a  bank 
note  for  five  hundred  pounds  on  the  table. 
'Now  I  will  have  no  qualms  and  squeamish 
nonsense.  Miss  Littleton;  I  am  certain  my 
lady  meant  to  provide  for  you — more  shame 
for  some  folks  that  they  forgot  her  last  com- 
mands; but  we  cannot  always  make  people 


REBECCA.  101 

do  as  they  ought.  Now,  you  must  take  this 
money,  and  consider  it  as  her  bequest.  I 
am  sure  you  will  find  it  necessary  very  soon 
to  quit  this  family  ;  your  dear  pale  cheeks 
and  heavy  eyes  tell  me  you  should  at  this 
moment  be  in  your  bed,  rather  than  at  work.' 
She  then  drew  out  the  picture,  which  was 
only  set  in  plain  gold. 

Rebecca  took  it,  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and 
tying  the  riband  that  was  fixed  to  it  round 
her  neck,  placed  it  as  a  sacred  deposit  in 
her  bosom.  She  also  took  the  bank  note 
and  put  it  in  her  pocket-book,  but  secretly 
resolved  that  nothing  but  the  severest  neces- 
sity should  tempt  her  to  break  into  it. 

When  Monday  arrived,  Rebecca  could  not 
avoid  approaching  the  window  at  the  sound 
of  every  carriage  that  drew  up  to  the  door. 

'He  will  not  surely  leave  England,1  said 
she,  'without  taking  leave  of  his  sister.' 

About  two  o'clock  she  saw  his  chariot 
draw  up  to  the  door,  and  half  concealing 
herself  behind  the  window  shutter,  gazed  on 
him,  and  breathed  a  prayer  for  his  felicity, 
as  she  saw  him  alight.  In  about  half  an  hour 
she  was  desired  to  bring  Master  James  and 
Miss  Ossiter  into  the  drawing-room.  She 
took  them  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  put 
them  in,  but  her  feelings  were  too  powerful 
(o  permit  her  to  enter. 

'Ah!  uncle,'  said  Miss  Ossiter,  'I  am  glad 
9* 


1 02  REBECCA- 

you  are  come,  I  have  been  waiting  for  you 
this  long,  long  lime.' 

'  Well,  my  dear  Lucy,'  said  he,  fondly 
taking  her  on  his  knee,  'and  what  might 
make  you  wish  to  see  me  so  much?' 

■•  Because  I  love  you  dearly,'  said  she 
throwing  her  little  arms  round  his  neck,  'but 
that  an't  all.1 

'  No !  what  else  was  it  then  ?' 

She  lowered  her  voice,  and,  clapping  her 
mouth  close  to  his  ear,  said,  '  I  owe  my  maid 
half  a  crown,  and  I  told  her  you  would  pay 
her.' 

Sir  George  was  surprised.  'And  pray 
how  does  that  happen?'  said  he. 

'Rebecca  lent  it  me,'  said  she,  still  lower- 
ing her  voice, '  to  give  to  a  poor  man.' 

'What  Rebecca?'  said  sir  George,  aston- 
ished.' 

'Why,  Rebecca,'  replied  the  child;  'my 
own  maid,  that  teaches  me  to  read,  and  say 
my  prayers,  and  tells  me  if  I  am  good  I 
shall  go  to  heaven.' 

'What  stuff  is  the  child  talking?'  said  la- 
dy Ossiter,  catching  the  last  word. 

Sir  George  was  loo  strongly  affected  to 
speak  ;  he  put  a  couple  of  guineas  into  Lu- 
cy's hand,  and  hastily  kissing  them  all,  hur- 
ried out  of  the  house  ;  as  he  seated  himself 
in  the  chaise,  he  cast  his  eyes  towards  the 
upper  windows.   Rebecca  caught  the  glance ; 


REBECCA.  103 

the  impulse  was  irresistible;  she  threw  up 
the  sash. 

Sir  George  kissed  his  hand,  while  his 
countenance  betrayed  the  feelings  of  his 
soul. 

Rebecca  laid  hers  on  her  heart,  then  lift- 
ed them  towards  heaven,  as  if  she  would 
have  said,  'God  bless  you!1 

'Drive  on,'  said  sir  George,  and  again 
bowing  his  head  to  hide  his  emotions  from 
the  servants,  a  moment  conveyed  him  from 
her  sight. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

'1  do  not  think,  my  dear,'  said  lord  Ossi- 
ter,  as  he  was  taking  his  chocolate  in  his  la- 
dy's dressing-room,  one  morning,  about  a 
fortnight  after  sir  George's  departure,  '  I  do 
not  think  it  will  be  in  my  power  to  join  the 
intended  parly  at  lady  Ricket's  tonight.' 

'Some  new  engagement,  my  lord,'  said 
her  ladyship,  smiling  affectedly. 

'Not  a  very  agreeable  one,'  he  replied. — 
'I  am  obliged  to  go  into  the  city,  on  some 
infernal  business  with  my  banker:  these 
monied  men  are  the  most  tiresome  animals 
in  the  dreation.  He  says  1  have  over-drawn 
him,  and  desires  I  will  come  and  examine 
my  accounts  ;  it  is  a  cursed  stupid  affair,  and 


104  REBECCA. 

I  don't  often  concern  myself  about  suci'i 
things,  but  the  fellow  is  so  pressing.' 

'  But  perhaps  you  can  get  away  in  time  to 
dress  and  join  us,  my  lord,  before  supper/ 

'1  will  if  possible,  but  I  dare  say  the 
wretch  will  make  me  as  stupid  as  himself 
before  I  have  done  with  his  discounts  and 
interests,  so  I  shall  be  horrid  bad  company  ; 
therefore  it  is  most  likely  1  shall  come  home 
and  go  to  bed.' 

'To  bed!  my  lord,'  cried  her  ladyship, 
laughing;  'why  sure  you  are  going  to  take 
pattern  by  the  sober  cit.' 

Though  lady  Ossiter  pretended  to  desire 
her  lord's  company,  it  was,  in  fact,  the  fur- 
thest thing  from  her  wishes.  She  had  for 
some  time  past  been  admired  and  followed 

by  the  duke  of a  conquest  so  brilliant 

and  unexpected,  was  the  highest  gratification 
of  this  vain  woman,  and  she  heard  with  plea- 
sure her  husband's  intended  appointment  in 
the  city,  as  she  was  resolved  lo  see  his  grace 
for  half  an  hour  at  home,  previous  to  their 
meeting  at  lady  Ricket\s  ball,  where  she  was 
engaged  to  dance  with  him. 

But  lord  Ossiter  had  frequently  given  her 
a  few  pretty  plain  hints  in  regard  to  her  con- 
duct with  her  noble  admirer,  and  therefore, 
though  she  had  resolved  to  see  him,  she 
thought  it  would  be  best  to  do  it  privately, 
and  Lappet  being  unfortunately  gone  to  vis- 
it  a  sick  brother  in    the  country,  she  was 


REBECCA.  105 

obliged  to  make  Rebecca  her  confidant  on 
this  occasion,  and  immediately  on  retiring 
from  breakfast,  she  summoned  her  to  her 
dressing-room. 

4  Rebecca,  child,1  said  she,  as  she  entered, 
;  I  think  I  have  not  given  you  any  thing  since 
you  have  been  with  me,  and  you  have  dune 
more  than  half  of  Lappet's  business  for  her; 
there  is  that  blue  satin  gown  and  coat,  you 
may  lake  them,  and  as  they  are  rather  soil- 
ed, here  is  something  to  pay  for  dying  and 
making  up  :'  presenting  her  with  a  couple  of 
guineas.  '  Do  you  know,  child,'  continued 
she,  '  I  have  taken  the  strangest  whim  into 
my  head,  and  you  must  lend  me  your  assist- 
ance— I  think  that  trimming  you  made  me 
extremely  pretty,  I  dare  say  it  will  be  great- 
ly admired.1 

'  1  am  happy  it  pleases  you,  madam,1  said 
she;  'but  I  thought  you  were  saying  you 
would  have  it  altered.' 

lOh,  no,  I  was  not  speaking  of  my  dress 
then,  I  think  nothing  can  be  more  elegant 
or  better  fancied,  but  you  have  a  charming 
taste,  that  is  certain.  No,  I  was  going  to  tell 
you  of  a  strange  whim  I  had  taken  to  play  a 
trick  with  the  old  duke  of——;  for,  do  you 
know,  the  man  makes  downright  love  to  me 
whenever  he  meets  me,  and  the  other  da}% 
when  he  was  here,  he  left  behind  him  these 
superb  bracelets.  Now,  I  have  a  mind  to 
mortify  him.   and  as   my   lord  is  going  into 


10b  REBECCA- 

the  city,  I  will  send  for  the  duke  to  come 
here  that  I  may  have  an  opportunity  of  re- 
turning his  present,  and  laugh  at  him.' 

'  Would  it  not  be  better  to  return  them  to 
him,'  said  she,  'without  seeing  him?' 

•  Oh,  no,  that  will  not  do  half  so  well,  for 
I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his 
chagrin;  so  Rebecca,  you  shall  take  a  note, 
which  1  will  write,  and  send  it,  unknown  to 
the  other  servants,  and  when  his  grace  comes 
he  shall  come  disguised,  and  pass  for  your 
brother,  and  you  can  bring  him  to  my  dres- 
sing-room.' 

'Your  ladyship  will  pardon  me,'  said  she, 
laying  the  two  guineas  on  the  table,  '1  am 
not  fit  to  engage  in  such  a  service;  1  would 
much  rather  decline  it.' 

'Decline  it!'  said  her  ladyship,  redden- 
ing; '  pray  are  you  not  my  servant?' 

'  Undoubtedly,  madam.' 

'And  is  it  not  your  duty  to  obey  my  or- 
ders?' 

'When  they  are  proper.' 

'  And  pray  are  you  to  be  judge  of  what  is 
proper  or  improper  in  my  actions?' 

'  By  no  means;  but  your  ladyship  will  al- 
low me  to  judge  of  my  own.' 

'Oh,  certainly,  madam,  if  you  are  too 
squeamish  to  enter  into  so  innocent  a  plan.' 

'  I  make  no  doubt  but  your  designs,  mad- 
am, are  perfectly  innocent,  but  where  there 


REBECCA.  107 

is  mystery  there  is  always  room  for  suspi- 
cion, and  should  my  lord  discover  it — ' 

'But  how  can  he,  child,  if  you  are  dis- 
creet ?' 

'  I  am  determined  to  be  so,  madam,  and 
hope  you  will  pardon  my  temerity,  if  I  hum- 
bly entreat  you  to  drop  this  design.' 

'Prithee,  good  madam  pert,'  said  her  la- 
dyship, scornfully,  '  do  not  pretend  to  more 
delicac}'  and  virtue  than  your  betters.  I 
have  as  high  a  regard  for  my  honor  as  any 
woman  can  have,  but  I  may  indulge  myself, 
1  hope,  in  a  little  innocent  gallantry  for  all 
that.     Go;  I  shall  not  want  you  till  I  dress.' 

She  retired,  and  for  this  once  the  pain  her 
lady's  anger  gave  her  was  more  than  coun- 
terbalanced by  the  reflection  that  she  had 
acted  right  in  rejecting  the  infamous  service 
she  would  have  employed  her  in. 

Contrary  to  her  lady's  expectation,  Re- 
becca had  scarcely  entered  her  own  apart- 
ment, when  Lappet  returned,  and  entered 
the  dressing-room,  to  receive  lady  Ossiters 
commands. 

'  Well,  Lappet,'  said  she,  'you  have  re- 
turned in  very  good  time,  for  1  have  been  so 
grossly  affronted  by  that  little  prude,  Re- 
becca, that  1  can  hardly  retain  my  anger; 
do  }'ou  know  the  impertinent  creature  had 
the  audacity  to  refuse  having  a  note  convey- 
ed  from   me  to  the   duke  of .  though  I 

had  condescended  to  inform  her  (hat  mv  h> 


108  REBECCA, 

tentions  were  only  to  laugh  at  him.  You 
know,  Lappet,  there  is  not  a  woman  breath- 
ing would  be  more  cautious  tban  myself  in 
doing  any  thing  improper.' 

'Dear,  my  lady,  I  am  sure  of  that;  nor 
is  your  ladyship,  by  any  means,  obliged  to 
enter  into  explanations  with  your  servants  ; 
to  speak  your  commands,  is  sufficient  to  have 
them  instantly  obeyed.' 

The  obsequious  abigail  took  the  note,  con- 
veyed it  herself,  and  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  his  grace  was  admitted  to  her  lady's 
dressing-room. 

Lady  Ossiter  meant  nothing  less  than  to 
overstep  the  boundaries  of  discretion  in  this 
tete-a-tete.  The  duke  was  to  her  an  object  of 
disgust,  but  flattery  was  delightful  to  her 
ears,  and  pearls  and  diamonds  were  pretty 
ornaments  in  her  opinion,  easily  purchased 
by  a  little  condescension;  and  she  flattered 
herself  that  while  she  remained  virtuous  in 
one  great  point,  she  might  indulge  herself  in 
every  other  imprudence,  and  defy  the  cen- 
sures of  the  world. 

But  it  was  the  opinion  of  Rebecca,  that 
every  truly  virtuous  woman  should  careful- 
ly avoid  even  the  appearance  of  indiscre- 
tion, especially  those  whose  elevated  sta- 
tions might  render  their  examples  infinitely 
pernicious  to  their  inferiors:  she  therefore 
felt  herself  greatly  hurt  by  lady  Ossiter's 
want  of  prudence,  and  flattered  herself  the 


REBECCA.  109 

repulse  she  had  met  from  her  would  pre- 
vent her  making  her  designs  known  to  any 
other  servant,  and  she  readily  imagined  Mrs 
Lappet  would  be  as  unwilling  as  herself  to 
engage  in  the  business;  so  when  informed 
she  had  returned,  Rebecca  found  herself 
somewhat  relieved,  as  she  knew  she  should 
avoid  the  painful  task  of  dressing  a  woman 
whom  she  feared  would  be  predetermined 
not  to  be  pleased  with  her  utmost  exertion. 

While  the  duke  and  her  ladyship  were 
together,  the  artful  Lappet  thought  she  would 
just  step  in  and  hear  what  Rebecca  had  to 
say  on  the  subject,  for,  by  her  specious  ap- 
pearance of  friendship,  she  had  so  won  on 
the  unsuspicious  heart  of  our  heroine,  that 
she  never  scrupled  to  communicate  to  her 
every  thought  as  it  arose,  except  those  that 
concerned  sir  George,  and  those  she  endeav- 
ored to  conceal,  if  possible,  even  from  her- 
self. 

1  So,'  cried  Lappet,  sitting  down,  '  my  la- 
dy and  you  had  a  tiff  today,  1  find.' 

'We  did  not  quite  agree,'  said  Rebecca, 
slightly,  '  but  I  dare  say  she  has  forgotten  it 
by  this  time ;  I  am  sure  I  do  not  wish  to  re- 
member it.' 

4 1  suppose  she  wanted  to  get  a  letter  con- 
veyed to  the  duke." 

'What  then  she  has  told  you  herself  has 
she?' 

1  Oh,  yes,  the  moment  I  came  in.   1  declare 
10 


110  REBECCA. 

it  is  a  pity  my  lord  is  not  acquainted  with 
her  conduct.' 

'  It  wuuld  be  a  cruel  thing,  Mrs  Lappet,  lo 
plant  dissension  between  man  and  wife;  be- 
sides, 1  dare  say  my  lady,  though  impru- 
dent is  not  criminal.' 

4  To  be  sure  my  lady  has  some  excuse ; 
my  lord  is  always  after  other  women  ;  he  is 
seldom  at  home,  and  I  am  certain  don't  care 
a  pin  about  his  wife.' 

'  Perhaps  if  her  ladyship  was  more  atten- 
tive to  increase  his  domestic  comforts,  he 
would  necessarily  grow  more  attached  to 
home,  but  while  she  is  so  extravagantly  fond 
of  dissipation,  and  while  the  four  honors 
have  the  power  to  keep  her  from  home, 
night  after  night,  can  we  be  surprised  if  her 
husband  seeks  abroad  for  that  felicity  he  is 
sure  of  not  meeting  in  his  own  house  ?' 

'  Why,  to  say  truth,  my  lady  is  a  sad  rake.' 

'And  her  children,  Mrs  Lappet,  she  pays 
but  little  attention  to  them,  nor  will  she  suf- 
fer any  other  person  to  do  it.  Can  there  be 
a  more  lovely  or  engaging  child  than  Miss 
Ossiter.  1  am  sure  the  little  time  1  have  to 
instruct  her  is  amply  repaid  by  her  docility 
and  attention;  as  to  Master  Ossiter  and  his 
brother  James,  they  are  so  humored,  espe- 
cially the  former,  that  it  requires  greater 
powers  than  I  am  possessed  of  to  make  them 
attend  to  any  thing.' 

'Pie  is  very  passionate,'  said  Lappet. 


REBECCA.  1  1  1 

*  Extremely  so,'  replied  the  artless  Rebec- 
ca; 'besides  which  he  is  cruel,  mischievous, 
and  a  great  liar,  and  these  things  should  be 
corrected  in  time,  or  he  will  be  as  dpspica- 
ble  when  a  man,  as  he  is  now  disagreeable 
as  a  child.' 

'His  temper  is  very  much  like  his  mo- 
ther's.' 

'  1  think  there  is  some  similitude  between 
them,  for  indeed  Mrs  Lappet,  I  do  not  know 
how  you  acquire  fortitude  to  support  it,  but 
my  lady  is  sometimes  so  passionate  and  ca- 
pricious 1  am  ready  to  die  with  vexation, 
and,  though  my  heart  be  ready  to  burst,  in 
her  presence  1  dare  not  shed  a  tear,  for  if 
sometimes,  when  1  can  no  longer  suppress 
them,  they  will  burst  foil h,  she  reproaches 
me  with  childishness,  passion,  and  folly. 
Folly  it  is,  1  will  own,  to  let  the  behavior 
of  so  unfeeling  a  woman  wound  my  sensi- 
bility; but  yet  when  I  know  that  1  do  my 
duty  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  it  is  very 
hard  to  meet  nothing  in  return  but  taunts 
and  unkindness.' 

'  So  it  is  indeed,  my  dear,  but  you  must 
keep  up  your  spirits.' 

'1  do,  Airs  Lappet,  as  well  as  I  can,  but 
my  lady  sometimes  asks  me  what  I  am  fit 
for,  and  if  she  had  not  taken  me  who  would. 
That  my  lord  often  tells  her  he  wonders, 
she  will  keep  so  awkward  a  creature  about 
her.    1  am  sensible  1  have  many  obligations 


1 1  2  REBECCA. 

to  her  ladyship's  family,  but  can  I  help  my 
inexperience,  unacquainted  as  1  am  w  Ufa  ser- 
vitude?' 

'No,  to  be  sure  you  cannot;  but  my  lady 
will  want  me,  and  1  shall  come  in  lor  my 
sh;tre,  for  1  do  assure  you,  child,  we  get  it 
all  round  in  turn;  bat  you  will  know  how  to 
bear  these  things  better  in  time.' 

'  Lappet  returned  to  her  lady,  and  not  only 
repeated  but  exaggerated  every  thing  which 
Rebecca,  in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  had 
uttered. 

'Ungrateful  creature!'  said  the  lady,  'af- 
ter what  I  have  done  for  her.' 

'Ungrateful  indeed,  madam,  I  really  won- 
der your  ladyship  will. keep  her.' 

'I  shall  not  keep  her  long,  Lappet;  I  as- 
sure you  1  am  quite  sick  of  her  airs  and  im- 
pertinence.' 

The  clock  had  struck  ten,  the  children 
were  in  bed,  and  lady  Ossiter  just  stepped 
into  her  chariot  and  drove  towards  Caven- 
dish-Square, the  servants  retired  to  the  lower 
apartments,  and  silence  seemed  to  reign  in 
the  house.  Rebecca  wearied  with  the  fa- 
tigue and  vexation  of  the  day,  thought  she 
might,  this  evening,  safely  indulge  in  a  re- 
laxation which  she  had  not  enjoyed  since 
her  residence  in  lady  Oss'iter's  family,  which 
was  to  practise  a  few  hours  on  the  harpsi- 
chord. She  took  her  music  books  and  can- 
dle, and  went  to  a  small  parlor  in  a  retired 


REBECCA.  113 

part  of  the  house,  where  stood  a  fine  toned 
instrument,  and  where  she  sat  down  and 
amused  herself,  unthinking  how  time  passed, 
and  entirely  inattentive  to  the  footsteps  that 
passed  and  repassed  the  door  of  the  apart- 
ment. The  music  soothed  and  composed 
the  perturbation  of  her  spirits.  She  played 
several  little  plaintive  airs,  and  accompa- 
nied them  with  her  voice;  and  among  the 
rest,  the  song  she  was  singing  when  sir 
George  first  saw  her.  When  she  had  got 
nearly  through  it,  the  remembrance  of  that 
scene — the  striking  contrast  of  her  situation 
then  and  now,  struck  so  forcibly  on  her  im- 
agination that  she  was  unable  to  proceed. 
She  paused,  and  tears  involuntarily  stole 
down  her  cheeks;  her  amusement  was  end- 
ed; she  rose  from  her  seat,  and  was  shut- 
ting the  book,  when  somebody  clasped  her 
rudely  in  his  arms  and  snatched  a  kiss. 

Rebecca,  too  much  terrified  to  scream, 
could  only  endeavor  to  disengage  herself, 
and  turning  round  beheld  lord  Ossiter. 

'  If  I  have  alarmed  you,  my  dear  crea- 
ture, I  humbly  entreat  your  pardon.  But 
do  not  let  me  interrupt  your  amusement ; 
come,  sit  down  again,  and  let  me  hear  that 
charming  song  you  were  singing  when  1  en- 
tered the  room.' 

'Your  lordship  will  pardon  me,  1  had  no 
intention  of  being  heard  by  any  one; — 1 
hive  some  orders  to  execute  for  my  lady." 
10* 


1 1 4  REBECCA. 

'Nay,  nay  you  do  not  gel  oft"  so  easily. 
Do  you  know  my  lovely  girl,  I  have  been 
absolutely  expiring  from  the  first  moment  I 
beheld  you,  for  an  opportunity  to  tell  you 
how  much  I  admire  and  adore  you?' 

'  Surely  your  lordship  cannot  seriously 
mean  to  insult  me.' 

'Insult  you,  my  angel!  no,  by  heavens  ] 
would  sacrifice  the  wretch  who  shoulc|  dare 
offend  you.  No,  my  dear  girl,  I  mean  to 
offer  you  love  and  affluence  in  the  room  of 
dependance  and  poverty.  I  will  place  you 
in  your  proper  sphere;  such  beauty  and 
elegance  were  not  formed  for  servitude. — 
Come,  listen  to  rru,  I  will  furnish  you  a 
house,  keep  you  a  chariot,  and  settle  five 
hundred  a  year.' 

'Gracious  heaven!'  cried  Rebecca,  burst- 
ing into  tears,  '  to  what  am  I  exposed.' 

'Pshaw,  pshaw,  this  is  all  prudery  and 
nonsense;  come,  dry  your  tears  and  Ictus 
go  to  my  jeweller's,  and  you  shall  take  jrour 
choice  of  whatever  trinkets  his  shop  affords, 
I  will  not  limit  you  as  to  the  sum.' 

Lord  Ossiter  had  but  an  indifferent  opin- 
ion of  female  delicacy;  bethought  the  word 
virtue  very  pretty  in  the  mouth  of  a  pretty 
woman,  but  as  to  the  reality  existing  in  the 
heart,  he  thought  no  woman  possessed  so 
large  a  share,  but  that  money,  jewels,  and 
flattery  could  lull  it  to  sleep :  how  aston- 
ished was  he  then  to  find,  upon  taking  a  few 


REBECCA.  1 1  5 

liberties  with  Rebecca,  that  she  shrunk  in- 
stinctively from  him,  shrieked  faintly,  and 
staggering  a  few  paces  towards  the  door, 
fell  lifeless  on  the  floor. 

Terrified,  he  caught  her  from  the  ground, 
and  ringing  the  bell  with  violence,  began  to 
tear  open  her  gown  and  handkerchief,  in 
order  to  give  her  air:  '  my  dear,  my  lovely 
girl,'  said  he,  'for  heaven's  sake  revive.' — 
Then  placing  her  on  a  sofa,  he  seated  him- 
self beside  her,  and  rested  her  head  on  his 
shoulder. 

At  that  moment  who  should  appear  at  the 
door  but  Mrs  Lappet,  all  the  fury  of  a  jeal- 
ous enraged  woman  flashing  from  her  eyes. 

'My  dear  Lappet,'  said  his  lordship, 'I 
happened  to  come  unexpectedly  into  the 
room  where  this  poor  girl  was  amusing  her- 
self, and  see  how  it  has  affrighted  her;  do 
get  a  little  water.' 

But  Lappet  was  not  to  be  deceived ;  she 
had  heard  him  utter  words  of  tenderness, 
and  was  sufficiently  convinced  Rebecca  was 
her  rival. 

'The  creature  is  so  affected,'  said  she,  '  1 
declare  there  is  no  bearing  her,  but  I  assure 
your  lordship  I  have  something  else  to  do 
than  to  wait  on  the  dear  lovely  g/V/.' 

Rebecca  was  now  recovering,  and  raising 
her  head,  she  caught  hold  of  Lappet's  gown, 
as  she  turned  to  leave  the  room,  and  ex- 


116  REBECCA. 

claimed,  'do  not  leave  me;  stay,  save  me; 
take  me  from  this  place.' 

'Indeed,  ma'am,  1  am  in  a  hurry,'  cried 
Lappet,  twitching  her  gown  from  the  feeble 
grasp  of  Rebecca,  and  flung  out  of  the  room, 
audibly  saying,  '  her  lady  should  be  inform- 
ed what  sort  of  a  person  she  had  in  her 
family.' 

Rebecca  arose,  disengaged  herself  from 
his  lordship's  arms,  who  no  longer  attempt- 
ed to  detain  her,  and  with  trembling  steps 
returned  to  her  apartment. 

'So,  ma'am,'  cried  Lappet,  as  she  was  as- 
sisting her  lady  to  rise  next  morning,  'so, 
ma'am,  though  Miss  Rebecca  was  so  deli- 
cate as  to  refuse  conveying  a  letter  to  his 
grace,  she  has  no  objection  to  private  inter- 
views with  my  lord.  Oh.  I  could  have  torn 
the  creature's  eyes  out,  an  impertinent  minx.' 

'What  arc  you  talking  of,  Lappet?'  said 
her  ladyship,  with  the  greatest  composure, 
'  I  protest  you  seem  out  of  your  senses.' 

'  I  am,  my  lady,  almost;  for  when  I  reflect 
on  so  kind,  so  good  a  lady  as  yourself  being 
treated  in  such  a  barbarous  manner:  why, 
ma'am,  after  you  were  gone  out  last  night,  I 
went  up  to  see  if  Rebecca  was  doing  the 
dress  your  ladyship  said  you  would  wear 
on  Thursday,  and  1  could  not  find  her;  how- 
ever, 3S  I  knew  she-  sometimes  went  to  the 
library  when  you  were  not  at  home,  and 
staid  and  read  for  two  or  three  hours,  I  sat 


REBECCA.  1 1  7 

down  and  began  a  little  of  it  myself,  but,  af- 
ter working  till  past  twelve  o'clock,  I  thought 
it  was  very  odd  where  she  could  be,  so  1 
went  down  the  back  stairs,  thinking  perhaps 
1  should  find  her  in  the  housekeeper's  room, 
but  as  I  passed  the  little  music  parlor,  1  heard 
(he  sound  of  voices,  and  opening  the  door, 
what  does  your  ladyship  think  1  discovered  1 
I  thought  I  should  have  swooned  away,  for 
there  sat  Rebecca,  fast  locked  in  my  lord's 
arms,  and  her  head  leaning  on  his  shoulder.' 

4  Very  well,'  cried  lady  Ossiter,  peevish- 
ly, the  crimson  of  resentment  rushing  over 
her  face  and  neck,  'why  am  1  plagued  with 
this  long  story  ;  one  would  think  you  were 
jealous  of  the  creature,  by  the  passion  you 
are  in.' 

'  I  jealous,  my  lady,  does  your  ladyship 
think—' 

'Oh,  no  !  I  don't  think  about  it ;  1  suppose 
my  lord  is  not  worse  than  other  men  of  his 
rank  ;  and  while  he  is  not  wanting  in  respect 
4o  me.,  1  shall  not  trouble  myself  about  his 
amusements  ;  to  be  sure,  it  is  rather  morti- 
fying to  have  a  little  insignificant  hussy  pre- 
ferred  in  one's  own  house.' 

'That  is  what  I  say,  ma'am.1 

'  You  have  no  right  to  say  or  think  aboirt 
it;  if  I  dm  satisfied  with  my  lord's  conduct, 
I  desire  I  may  hear  none  of  your  flippant 
impertinence  upon  a  subject  that  don't  con- 
cern you.' 


U3  REBECCA. 

'I  have  done,  ma'am,  but  I  hope  you  will 
discharge — ? 

'  I  certainly  shall  discharge  every  servant 
of  mine,  whose  conduct  displeases  me;  there- 
fore, Lappet,  read  that  impudent  scrawl, 
and  then  let  me  know  what  wages  are  due  to 
you.' 

'Lnppet  took  the  letter,  and  trembled  as 
she  took  it,  for  she  knew  it  to  be  one  which 
she  had  written  to  her  sister,  and  having  in- 
trusted it  to  the  house-maid  to  put  in  the 
post,  the  girl's  curiosity  led  her  to  open  if, 
but,  being  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  her 
lady  whilst  in  the  act  of  reading  it,  she  had, 
in  her  hurry  to  put  it  in  her  pocket,  dropped 
it,  and  while  the  officious  Lappet  was  con- 
triving to  introduce  the  duke  uvperceived  to 
her  lady,  this  unfortunate  letter  discovered 
her  criminal  intercourse  wilh  her  lord.  But 
though  lady  Ossiler  had  thus  bridled  her 
passion  while  talking  to  her  infamous  confi- 
dant, she  no  sooner  saw  the  innocent  Rebec- 
ca, than  she  vented  on  her  that  torrent  of 
abuse  fear  had  prevented  her  pouring  on 
the  other. 

Artful  infamous  creature,  were  her  ele- 
gant expressions,  to  pretend  to  such  refine- 
ment of  sentiment,  and  yet  be  guilty  of  such 
s;larin2:  faults. 

In  vain  Rebecca  wept,  and  called  on  hea- 
ven to  witness  her  innocence;  even  when 
kneeling,  she  requested  not  to  be  bereaved 


REBECCA.  119 

of  her  only  refuge  an  unblemished  character. 
The  haughty  lady  Ossiter  spurned  her  from 
her,  and  bid  her  instantly  leave  her  house, 
and  get  her  bread  without,  for  she  was  well 
convinced  she  did  not  deserve  one. 

Lord  Ossiter,  prepared  as  he  was  to  meet 
the  anger  of  his  lady  was  unable  to  bear  the 
illiberal  abuse  which  she  heaped  on  him; 
he  therefore  satisfied  himself  with  telling 
her,  when  she  practised  the  duties  of  a 
wife,  he  would  begin  to  study  those  of  a  hus- 
band ;  till  then  she  had  no  right  to  complain, 
and  left  her  to  compose  her  spirits  as  she 
could,  while  he  inquired  of  his  valet  what 
he  knew  concerning  Rebecca. 

He  soon  learnt,  by  inquiries  being  made 
among  the  servants,  that  Rebecca  was  dis- 
missed, and  that  she  had  taken  a  place  in 
the  Lincolnshire  stage,  in  order  to  return  to 
her  mother.  This  was  sufficient  intelligence 
for  his  lordship,  and  he  began  at  once  to 
plan  schemes  forgetting  her  into  his  power. 

When  Rebecca  came  to  take  leave  of  the 
children,  her  feelings  were  beyond  descrip- 
tion. Miss  Ossiter  hung  about  her  neck; 
even  Charles  and  James  begged  her  not  to 
go,  and  they  would  be  good  boys  and  never 
vex  her  by  behaving  ill  again.  She  em- 
braced t'hem  all  tenderly,  and  with  a  heart 
almost  broken,  got  into  a  hackney'-coach 
which  took  her  to  the  inn  whence  the  stage 
was  to  set  out.     She  asked  to  be  shown  to 


1 20  REBECCA. 

an  apartment,  and  ordered  some  trifle  for 
supper,  then  sitting  down  by  a  little  solitary 
fire,  began  to  reflect  on  her  vexations,  nor 
did  she  consider  it  as  the  least,  that  she  was 
obliged  to  return  to  her  mother,  who  had 
written  to  her  but  twice  during  her  residence 
in  London,  and  even  those  letters  were  short 
and  cold. 

The  five  hundred  pounds  Mrs  Harley  had 
given  her,  she  did  not  consider  as  her  own 
property,  and  besides  that,  she  was  posses- 
sed of  but  ten  guineas  in  the  world  ;  to  be 
sure  she  had  a  few  valuable  trinkets,,  pres- 
ents from  lady  Mary,  and  a  good  stock  of 
clothes;  but  what  was  that?  when  she  want- 
ed support  it  would  soon  be  gone.  In  the 
midst  of  these  painful  reflections  she  drew 
the  picture  of  her  benefactress  from  her  bo- 
som, and  contemplated  it  as  her  chief,  her 
almost  only  comfort.  But,  examining  it 
more  minutely  than  she  had  ever  before 
done,  she  thought  she  discovered  something 
like  a  spring  on  the  edge  of  the  setting,  and 
pressing  her  finger  on  it,  the  back  flew  off 
and  discovered  to  her  the  portrait  of  sir 
George  fixed  behind  that  of  his  mother. 

Spite  of  herself  she  could  not  help  gazing 
on  it  with  pleasure,  and  when  she  consider- 
ed the  delicacy  with  which  he  had  managed 
to  present  it  to  her,  he  rose  higher  than  ev- 
er in  her  esteem. 

'Ah,'  said  she,  'he  certainly  loves  me? 


REBECCA.  121 

and  is  worthy  my  esteem.  Why  are  we 
not  born  for  each  other?  for  sure  I  am  1 
could  be  content  with  sir  George,  though  in 
a  humble  station  :  more — far  more  happy 
than  in  an  elevated  sphere;  for  in  the  hum- 
bler walks  of  life  the  felicity  we  experience 
must  proceed  from  a  mutual  desire  to  please ; 
but  in  an  exalted  station  we  live  not  for  our- 
selves but  others,  at  least  if  we  have  not 
fortitude  to  scorn  the  sneers  of  the  fashiona- 
ble world.' 

Rebecca  could  not  help  considering  the 
possession  of  this  portrait,  at  this  period, 
as  an  invaluable  treasure,  and  in  her  own 
breast  vowed  not  to  part  from  it.  She  in- 
dulged herself  with  gazing  at  it  while  she  sat 
up,  and  when  she  retired  to  bed,  laid  it  on 
her  pillow,  and  fell  into  a  composed  slum- 
ber, which  lasted  till  called  at  four  o'clock 
to  join  the  passengers  in  the  coach.  Re- 
freshed and  comforted  by  the  rest  she  had 
taken,  she  arose  with  alacrity  to  pursue  her 
journey,  and  nothing  material  occurred  till 
they  had  proceeded  upwards  of  fifty  miles 
from  town,  when  the  coach  w^s  overtaken 
by  a  post  chaise  and  four,  in  which  was  a 
man,  who  stopped  the  coachman  and  asked 
if  there  was  not  a  young  person  within  of 
the  name  of  Littleton.  '  Yes,'  cried  Rebec- 
ca, innocently  looking  out  of  the  window, 
'my  name  is  Littleton.' 

'Ah,  ma'am,'  cried  the  man,  'I  am  com- 
11 


}22  REBECCA 

mantled  to  entreat  you  to  return.     Miss  Os- 
siter  was  last  night  taken  extremely  ill,  and 
continually  cries  for  you  ;  my  lady  therefore 
begs  you  will  forget  what  is  past,  and  come 
and  take  your  usual  station  in  the  family. — 
She  is  convinced  of  your  innocence,  but  if 
disagreeable   to  yourself,  she  will  only  de- 
sire you  to  remain  till  Miss  Ossiter  is  better.' 
Rebecca's   heart,  formed  for  the  warmest 
affection,  beat  high  when  she   heard  of  her 
little   favorite's   illness.     The   ill   treatment 
she  had  experienced  from  lady  Ossiter  was 
instantly  forgotten,  and  she  thought  only  of 
returning  as   quick  as  possible  to  attend  the 
dear   little  girl.     She  sprang   hastily  from 
the  coach,  and  only  taking  with  her  a  small 
portmanteau  containing  a  necessary  change 
of  linen,  got  into  the  chaise,   and   though 
drawn   as   fast   as  four  horses  could  carry 
her,  she  thought  every   moment  an    hour, 
so  anxious   was  she   to  arrive  in   Bedford- 
Square. 

It  was  very  late  when  Rebecca  entered 
London,  and  she  was  not  enough  acquaint- 
ed with  the  streets  to  know  whether  she  was 
going  right  or  wrong ;  therefore,  when  the 
chaise  stopped  in  a  large  square,  she  jumped 
eagerly  out  and  ran  into  the  house,  with- 
out once  considering  whether  she  knew  the 
place;  but  when  she  had  got  into  the  hall 
and  the  door  was  shut,  just  as  she  was  go- 
ing to  run  up  stairs,  the  staircase,  which  was 


REBECCA.  123 

different  from  the  one  she  had  been  used  to, 
struck  her,  and  turning  hastily  round  to  de- 
mand why  she  was  brought  to  a  strange 
place,  she  saw  the  parlor  door  open,  and  in 
an  instant  lord  Ossiter  was  at  her  feet. 

'Good  heaven!'  said  she,  'where  am  I? 
why  am  1  thus  betrayed?' 

'  You  are  not  betrayed  my  adorable  Miss 
Littleton,'  said  he;  'let  me  entreat  you  to 
be  calm.  Grieved  to  the  soul  that  lady  Os- 
siter should  have  treated  you  so  unworthily, 
1  made  use  of  an  innocent  stratagem  to  bring 
you  back,  that  I  might  obtain  your  pardon, 
and  convince  you  (hat  I  am  ready  to  expi- 
ate with  my  life,  the  offence  she  has  commit- 
ted against  you.' 

'If  that  is  all,'  cried  Rebecca,  scarcely 
able  to  respire,  through  terror. '  assure  your- 
self I  have  forgiven  you,  my  lord,  and  will 
pardon  the  deceit  you  have  been  guilty  of, 
if  you  will  suffer  me  to  quit  this  house,  where 
every  moment  1  remain,  fills  me  with  an- 
guish and  terror.' 

'Why  do  you  wish  to  quit  this  house,  my 
dear  angel?'  said  he,  forcibly  leading  her 
into  the  parlor;  'it  is  yours,  every  thing  in 
it  is  yours,  all  the  servants  arc  ready  to 
obey  your  commands.'  Then  ringing  the 
bell,  hjj  ordered  all  the  servants  to  appear, 
and  bid  them  consider  Rebecca  as  their  mis- 
tress, and  obey  her  as  they  valued  his  fu- 
ture favor. 


124  REBECCA. 

'Ah,  my  friends,'  said  Rebecca,  'do  not 
attend  to  what  he  says;  I  have  no  right  to 
command  you,  I  am  only  a  servant,  like 
yourselves,  and  such  1  wish  to  remain;  only 
continue  to  me  just  heaven  !'  cried  she,  fer- 
vently raising  her  eyes  and  hands,  'my  in- 
nocence unsullied,  and  my  integrity  of  mind 
unshaken.' 

'  Be  composed,  my  dearest  love,'  said  his 
hardship,  dismissing  the  servants,  'no  harm 
shall  happen  to  you  while  under  my  pro- 
tection.' 

'Oh!'  cried  she,  in  an  agony,  'I  see,  un- 
less some  protecting  angel  hovers  over  me, 
I  am  threatened  with  the  worst  of  dangers. 
Let  me  go,  sir!  By  what  authority  do  you 
detain  me  here?' 

'Whither  would  you  go,  my  dear  crea- 
ture, at  this  late  hour?  if  you  quit  this  house- 
no  reputable  door  will  open  to  receive  you, 
and  1  am  sure  my  sweet  Rebecca  would  not 
enter  a  house  of  infamy.' 

'  Alas,  alas!  my  lord,  I  fear  I  have  done 
that  already,  though  heaven  knows  how  in- 
nocently.' 

'  My  lovely  girl,  do  but  compose  your  agi- 
tated spirits,  and  every  thing  will  appear  to 
you  in  a  different  light;  let  me  send  your 
own  woman  to  you,  she  shall  wait  on  you  to 
your  apartment,  where  I  beg  you  will  take 
some  refreshment,  and  endeavor  to  repose 
yourself;  I  swear  to  you,  Rebecca,  I  will  not 


REBECCA.  125 

enter  your  chamber  till  you  give  me  leave.' 

'Merciful  heaven  !'  cried  she,  '  what  will 
become  of  me?' 

Lord  Ossiter  retired,  and  an  elderly  wo- 
man made  her  appearance  with  candles. 

Rebecca  for  a  few  moments  stood  irreso- 
lute ;  at  length  she  determined  to  go  up  stairs 
with  the  woman,  and  by  a  pretended  calm- 
ness, endeavor  to  sound  her  principles,  and 
whether  she  was  entirely  devoted  to  the  in- 
terest of  her  lord.  When  she  was  in  the 
apartment  which  the  woman  called  her  own, 
she  sat  down  on  a  sofa,  and  calmly  inquired 
who  slept  in  the  adjoining  apartment. 

'  I  do,  madam,'  was  the  answer. 

'Have  you  been  long  in  this  house?' 

'  I  was  only  hired  yesterday,  madam: — 
and  my  lord's  gentleman  informed  me  the 
house  was  taken  for  a  young  lady,  a  relation 
of  his  master  who  was  expected  from  the 
countrjr.' 

'And  when  do  you  expect  she  will  ar- 
rive?' said  Rebecca,  with  assumed  indiffer- 
ence. 

'Madam,'  cried  the  woman,  staring,  'arc 
you  not  the  lady  ?' 

'No,  indeed,  I  am  no  relation  of  his  lord- 
ship; I  lived  in  his  family  as  a  servant  to 
dress, *  undress,  and  teach  Miss  Ossiter  to 
read.' 

'But  you  are  just  from  the  country  now, 
madam.' 

U* 


1 26  REBECCA. 

'  I  was  on  my  journey  into  the  country, 
when  I  was  fetched  back  again;  I  under- 
stood Miss  Ossiter  was  ill.' 

'  My  lord  undoubtedly  has  a  great  regard 
for  you,  and  means  to  give  you  in  this  house 
a  brilliant  establishment.  You  can  certain- 
ly have  no  objection  to  exchange  servitude 
for  affluence.1 

'It  is  a  desirable  change,  certainly,  if 
made  on  honorable  terms.' 

'Liberality,  my  dear  madam,  is  some- 
times an  equivalent  for  honor.' 

'Are  these  your  real  sentiments  ?' cried 
Rebecca,  with  a  scrutinizing  look. 

'They  are  the  sentiments  of  one  half  of 
the  world — ' 

'  But  had  you  a  child,  would  you  talk  to 
her  in  this  strain  ;  would  you  wish  her  to  bar- 
ter all  she  ought  to  hold  dear  in  life,  for  the 
paltry  consideration  of  splendor?' 

She  looked,  as  she  spoke,  earnestly  in  the 
woman's  face:  it  was  an  entreating,  suppli- 
cating look,  and  the  tears  gushed  from  her 
eyes. 

'I  had  a  daughter  once,'  replied  the  at- 
tendant (whom  we  shall  distinguish  by  the 
name  of  Harris:)  'she  was  lovely  as  you 
are — she  was  once  as  innocent ;  bnt  inno- 
cence could  not  shield  her  from  the  calum- 
ny of  the  world,  and  ill  treatment  depraved 
a  heart  formed  for  the  love  and  practice  of 
virtue.'     She  paused,  her  eyes  filled,  and 


REBECCA.  1 2.7 

Rebecca  began  to  hope  she  should  find  a 
friend  lhat  would  assist  her  in  escaping  the 
artful  snare  spread  by  lord  Ossiter,  to  entrap 
her  innocence. 

*  And  can  you,  my  dear  madam,'  said  she, 
in  a  most  persuasive  tone  of  voice,  '  can  you 
who  have  felt  so  much  for  a  child,  behold  a 
poor  forlorn  creature,  who,  unless  you  help 
her,  must  be  inevitably  lost;  plunged  into 
that  abyss  of  guilt  and  misery,  which  must 
sink  her  beneath  the  regard  of  every  virtu- 
ous person-  Oh  !  rather  stretch  forth  your 
hand  and  save  her.  1  am  innocent  now,  be 
thou  my  guardian  angel,  and  deliver  rac 
from  this  dreadful  place.  1  can  work,  and 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  work,  even  in  the  mean- 
est capacity;  I  will  be  ashamed  of  nothing 
but  dishonor.' 

Mrs  Harris  raised  her,  and  spoke  to  her 
words  of  comfort.  They  sat  together  till 
the  clock  struck  four,  and  then  taking  off 
their  shoes,  and  putting  out  the  light,  they 
stole  softly  down  stairs  and  out  at  the  street 
door.  Mrs  Harris  knew  where  she  should 
find  a  stand  of  night  coaches,  and  proceed- 
ing there  without  molestation,  they  got  into 
one,  and  drove  to  a  decent  looking  house  in 
the  borough,  the  mistress  of  which  readily 
admitted  them,  and  Rebecca  having  offered 
up  her  thanksgiving  to  the  protector  of  in- 
nocence, retired  to  a  homely  but  clean  bed. 


123  REBECCA. 

and  enjoyed  several  hours  of  uninterrupted 
repose. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

When  Rebecca  awoke  she  found  herself 
greatly  refreshed,  and  arose  with  a  heart 
deeply  impressed  with  gratitude  to  Mrs 
Harris,  who  had  thus  unexpectedly  deliv- 
ered her  from  the  worst  of  all  evils.  She 
went  down  stairs,  and  as  she  was  taking  her 
breakfast  began  to  talk  of  what  she  must  do  in 
future.  '  I  had  some  intentions  of  returning 
to  my  mother,1  said  she,  ;  but  1  think  now  I 
had  rather  endeavor  to  get  a  place.  I  have 
but  a  trifle  in  my  purse,  but  by  writing  to 
Lincolnshire  I  can  have  my  trunks  returned, 
and  1  have  some  money  in  them,  and  I  will 
beg  your  acceptance  of  part  of  it  for  the  em- 
inent service  you  have  rendered  me;  in  the 
mean  time  1  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you  if 
you  could  recommend  me  to  a  place,  if  you 
heard  of  any  thing  which  you  thought  would 
suit  me.' 

Mrs  Harris  and  her  friend  gave  our  hero- 
ine a  cordial  invitation  to  remain  with  them 
till  she  could  hear  from  her  mother,  and 
promised  to  inquire  for  a  place  which  might 
suit  her  abilities,  as  she  seemed  to  wish  to 
wait  on  a  very  young  lady,  or  be  compan- 


REBECCA.  1 29 

ion  to  an  elderly  one,  as  she  was  certain  her 
constitution  would  not  suffer  her  to  engage 
with  a  woman  of  fashion,  who  kept  a  great 
deal  of  company  and  late  hours,  of  which 
she  had  experienced  a  sufficient  specimen  in 
lady  Ossiter. 

Rebecca  addressed  a  letter  to  her  mother, 
briefly  informing  her  she  had  left  her  lady 
and  was  in  quest  of  another  place.  That 
she  had,  at  first,  intended  to  return  home, 
and  to  that  pnd  had  forwarded  her  trunk, 
which  she  requested  might  be  sent  to  town 
again  by  the  first  conveyance.  In  about 
four  day*  she  received  the  following  answer : 

'  DEAR    CHILD, 

'  1  am  sorry  to  find  you  have  left  lady  Os- 
siter, as  I  imagine  you  must  have  grossly  of- 
fended her  ladyship  before  she  could  have 
parted  with  you,  as  you  was  such  a  favorite 
with  her  mother;  however,  Rebecca,  you 
chose  to  leave  your  father's  house  and  to 
conduct  yourself  by  the  advice  of  strangers, 
you  therefore  know  best,  child,  what  you 
arc  about;  I  shall  not  take  upon  me  to  ad- 
vise where  I  know  my  advice  will  be  disre- 
garded. As  to  coming  into  the  country,  1 
think  it  would  be  putting  yourself  to  a  need- 
less expense,  as  I  know  you  would  never  be 
happy  to  stay  here;  and  sensible  as  I  was 
of  that,  you  cannot  wonder  I  have  chosen  a 
companion  and  protector  for  mjrself,  and  by 


130  REBECCA. 

uniting  with  the  worthy  Mr  Serle  have,  upon 
his  daughter  and  family,  a  claim  to  those 
tendernesses  and  attentions  I  in  vain  expect- 
ed from  my  own  child.  Mr  Serle  went  to 
the  inn  and  inquired  for  your  trunk,  but  we 
can  hear  nothing  of  it;  you  must,  therefore, 
inquire  for  it  at  the  inn  whence  the  coach 
eets  out  in  London. 

'  As  you  always  were,  or  pretended  to  he 
a  little  philosopher,  1  have  no  doubt  but  you 
will  get  very  well  through  the  world;  and 
you  have  youth  and  a  good  constitution  on 
your  side.  1  shall  always  be  glad  to  hear 
of  your  welfare;  above  all  things,  Rebecca, 
be  modest  and  virtuous ;  and  mind  vour  re- 
ligious duties,  as  your  poor  father  and  1  al- 
ways taught  you,  and  never  forget  that  you 
have  a  mother  who  loves  you,  and  to  whom 
all  your  duty  and  respect  is  due.  Mr  Serle 
and  Miss  Peggy  desire  me  to  give  their  best 
wishes  to  you,  though  they  have  no  acquaint- 
ance with  you. 

1  am,  dear  child, 

Your  affectionate  mother, 

R.    SERLE.' 

Rebecca's  sensations  on  the  receipt  of  this 
letter,  are  belter  imagined  than  described. 
Scarcely  six  months  had  elapsed  since  the 
death  of  her  father,  and  her  mother  was 
married  again,  that  mother  who,  but  a  short 
time  since  had  declared,  that  to  be  suspect* 


REBECCA-.  1  3 1 

ed  capable  of  admitting  a  second  partner, 
was  an  insult  that  hurt  her  feelings  exces- 
sively. 

Rebecca  now  felt  that  she  was  in  reality 
a  poor  solitary  being,  without  a  home,  and 
almost  without  a  friend  ;  to  be  sure  Mrs  Har- 
ris had  been  very  kind  to  her,  but  could  she 
expect  that  kindness  to  last  when  she  had  lost 
the  power  of  making  any  recompense,  flow- 
ever,  she  determined  to  make  some  inquiry 
concerning  her  trunk,  and  to  that  end  re- 
quested Mrs  Harris  to  accompany  her;  but 
all  the  tidings  she  could  learn  were,  that  the 
coachman  had  left  it  in  the  country,  and  that 
he  had  since  heard  it  had  been  taken  away 
by  a  person  who  said  he  came  from  Miss 
Littleton  herself,  with  orders  to  pay  all  ne- 
cessary expenses. 

'Was  there  any  thing  of  much  value  in 
the  trunk?'  said  Mrs  Harris. 

'Alas!'  cried  Rebecca,  'there  was  the 
greatest  part  of  my  clothes,  and  a  five  hun- 
dred pound  bank  note,  which  1  had  to  keep 
for  a  person  who  is  gone  abroad.' 

'Pray,  child,  what  kind  of  a  man  is  this 
father-in-law  of  yours?' 

'  Indeed  I  can  hardly  tell  you  ;  he  never 
visited  my  father  during  his  life,  nor  did  I 
ever  see  him  above  twice,  except  at  church  ; 
he  has  been  a  widower  some  years,  and  has 
one  daughter;  he  is  an  attorney  by  profes- 


132  REBECCA. 

sion,  but  I  believe  he  Dever  had  much  prac- 
tice.' 

'  Perhaps  your  mother's  annuity  was  the 
object  that  invited  this  marriage.' 

\  h  may  be  so,  but  I  can  hardly  think  it, 
for  at  the  utmost  it  is  not  more  than  forty 
pounds  a  year.  My  mother  has  an  agreea- 
ble person,  and  lively  manner;  1  do  not 
think  it  improbable  but  he  may  have  mar- 
ried her  for  love.' 

'  1  do  not  think  it  unlikely  but  he  has  got 
your  trunk.' 

'Dear,  Mrs  Harris,  how  can  you  suggest 
such  a  thing?  you  quite  shock  me.' 

'Shock  you  or  not,  I  think  that  is  really 
the  case,  and  I  would  advise  you  to  pursue 
legal  methods  to  discover  it.' 

'No,'  cried  Rebecca,  resolutely, 'never; 
I  cannot  bring  myself  to  suspect  that  my 
mother  would  unite  herself  to  a  man  capable 
of  such  an  action;  and  if  that  were  really 
the  case,  I  hope  1  have  too  high  a  sense  of 
filial  respect  to  attempt  exposing  her  to  the 
malicious  censures  of  a  world,  who  would 
not  fail  to  involve  her,  however  innocent,  in 
her  husband's  guilt.  My  own  interest  shall 
ever  give  way  to  her  peace  of  mind,  for  she 
was  the  chosen  companion,  the  bosom  friend 
of  the  btstof  fathers,  and  though  she  seems  to 
have  forgotten  that  I  am  her  child,  I  can 
never  forget  that  she  is  my  mother.' 

'All   this  may  be  very  clever,  for  what  I 


REBECCA  133 

know,'  Said  Mrs  Harris,  'but  I  am  sure  in 
my  opinion,  it  is  very  ridiculous.  You  will 
find,  my  poor  simple  child,  your  six  guineas 
will  go  but  a  very  little  way  towards  buying 
you  clothes  for  a  decent  place;  however, 
we  must  not  meet  troubles  half  way,  it  will 
be  time  enough  when  you  have  got  a  place, 
to  think  about  preparing  to  go  to  it;  but  1 
have  an  acquaintance  who  lives  in  this  street, 
and  who,  perhaps,  may  have  it  in  her  power 
to  help  you  to  something.' 

They  called  on  the  person  mentioned, 
who  was  a  lady's  woman,  in  an  opulent  mer- 
chant's family.  Mrs  Harris  mentioned  Re- 
becca's intentions,  and  learnt  that  there  was 
a  country  lady,  then  on  a  visit  to  this  fami- 
ly, who  had  parted  with  her  maid,  and  was 
in  want  of  one  to  supply  her  place.  Rebec- 
ca thought  she  could  venture  to  take  such  a 
situation  in  a  regular  quiet  family.  She  was 
introduced  to  the  lady,  who,  struck  with  her 
lo*vely  person  and  modest  demeanor,  con- 
ceived an  instantaneous  prepossession  in  her 
favor,  and  engaged  her  upon  liberal  terms, 
to  enter  her  service  on  that  day  week. 

Rebecca  felt  extremely  happy  that  she 
should  no  longer  be  a  burden  upon  the  kind 
Mrs  Harris,  and  eagerly  set  about  prepar- 
ing, as  well  as  the  narrow  state  of  her  finan- 
ces would  allow,  to  take  possession  of  her 
new  place. 

Mrs  Barton  (the  name  of  Rebecca's  new 
12 


134  REBECCA. 

mistress)  was  a  pleasant  lively  brunette, 
about  twenty  years  old.  She  had  married, 
when  very  young,  contrary  to  the  advice  of 
her  friends,  a  young  man  of  some  fortune 
and  rather  flighty  character,  but  she  had 
twenty  thousand  pounds  at  her  own  dispos- 
al, and  her  motto  was,  '  All  for  love.' 

Barton  was  really  attached  to  her  in  the 
first  years  of  their  marriage,  but  his  temper 
was  too  versatile  to  be  long  constant  to  any 
thing;  he  in  time  grew  cool,  and  often  play- 
ed her  false,  but  she  was  of  such  an  even, 
cheerful,  unsuspecting  temper,  so  unaffect- 
edly tender,  so  attentive  to  his  interest,  and 
studious  of  his  peace,  that  he  found  it  impos- 
sible to  treat  her  with  unkindness,  so  that 
there  was  always  an  appearance  of  much 
cordiality  between  them,  for  though  she 
could  not  shut  her  eyes  and  ears  upon  his 
infidelities,  she  wisely  concluded  it  was  pru- 
dent sometimes  to  be  wilfully  deaf  and  blind, 
and  that  if  good  humor  would  not  reclaim 
him,  ill  humor  would  certainly  make  him 
worse. 

With  this  couple  Rebecca  went  into 
Shropshire,  a  few  weeks  after  she  entered 
Mrs  Barton's  service.  Their  house  was  a 
venerable  gothic  building,  situated  in  the 
midst  of  a  beautiful  park,  and  had  fallen  to 
Mrs  Barton  on  the  death  of  her  godfather, 
from  whom  also  she  inherited  her  independ- 
ent fortune.     Rebecca  found  herself  much 


REBECCA.  135 

at  her  case,  Mrs  Barton  was  very  kind  to 
her,  and  finding  she  possessed  an  intelli- 
gent mind,  often  made  her  the  companion 
of  her  rambles  about  the  grounds  and  adja- 
cent country.  Mr  Barton  troubled  his  lady 
but  little  with  his  company,  except  at  meals, 
and  sometimes  not  then;  nay,  he  even  went 
so  far  as  to  sleep  from  home  several  nights 
in  the  week;  and  this  being  a  liberty  he  had 
never  before  taken,  without  his  wife  being 
informed  of  the  cause,  she  felt  herself  really 
uneasy,  and  though  when  he  was  present  she 
assumed  her  usual  cheerfulness,  it  was  im- 
possible to  conquer  her  feelings,  so  as  not  to 
let  her  chagrin  and  mortification  appear  to 
Rebecca,  who  sincerely  pitied,  and  by  ew 
ery  assiduity  in  her  power,  endeavored  to 
amuse  and  entertain  her.  Mrs  Barton  kept 
but  little  company;  she  was  fond  of  reading, 
drawing,  music  and  fancy  works;  in  these 
she  discovered  Rebecca's  taste  and  knowl- 
edge, and  many  a  heavy  hour  she  beguiled 
in  joining  the  labors  of  her  lady,  improving 
her  judgment,  and  with  the  sweetest  diffi- 
dence and  humility  correcting  her  errors. 

In  the  mean  time  lord  Ossiter  provoked 
beyond  measure,  that  a  scheme  he  had  im- 
agined infallible,  should  have  proved  totally 
abortive,  despatched  his  faithful  valet  oft*  to 
Lincolnshire,  in  hopes  to  find  the  fair  fugi- 
tive there,  and  get  her  once  more  into  his 
power;  but  here  he  was  again  foiled;  for 


136  REBECCA. 

though  Rebecca  had  written  to  her  mother, 
that  she  had  engaged  with  a  Mrs  Barton, 
yet  she  had  not  mentioned  in  what  part  of 
the  country  the  family  usually  resided,  so 
that  the  faithful  ambassador  returned  to  his 
disappointed  lord  without  the  least  consola- 
tory intelligence. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  visits  of  Barton  from  home  became 
now  too  long  and  too  frequently  repeated 
not  to  give  his  wife  serious  cause  for  uneasi- 
ness; she  secretly  resolved  to  discover,  if 
possible,  to  whom  he  devoted  so  large  a  por- 
tion of  his  time. 

Now  it  so  happened,  that  about  seven 
miles  from  Belle  Park,  on  the  side  of  a  crag- 
gy hill,  watered  by  an  impetuous  stream, 
that  rushed  from  the  upper  part  of  the  de- 
clivity, stood  an  old  mill,  and  by  the  side 
of  the  mill  stood  an  old  thatched  cottage, 
within  which  lived  an  old  couple,  who  had  a 
very  young  and  very  lovely  grand-daughter. 
Now  though  this  old  man  was  the  owner  of 
the  mill  and  the  cottage,  and  ground  manjr 
a  bushel  of  corn  for  his  poor  neighbors,  of 
which  he  never  failed  to  take  his  regular 
toll,  yet  it  so  happened  that  he  was  but  poor 
himself.     The  cottage,   we  have  said,   was 


REBECCA.  137 

old,  so  that  the  chilling  blasts  of  winter,  and 
the  scorching  heats  of  summer  found  easy 
entrance  through  its  shattered  frame;  but 
Dolly,  the  blooming  Dolly,  was  the  pride  of 
their  hearts,  and  often,  as  they  sat  smoking 
their  evening's  pipe,  they  would  gaze  on  her 
sparkling  black  eyes,  ruddy  complexion, 
and  delicate  shape,  and  cry, '  Ah,  surely  that 
girl  is  born  to  be  the  comfort  of  our  old  age ; 
she  is  so  handsome,  there  is  no  doubt  but  she 
will  get  some  squire  for  a  husband,  or,  may- 
hap, the  lord  of  the  manor.  Ah  bless  the 
dear  face  of  it,  I  shall  live  to  see  her  a  great 
lady  I  warrant,  and  then  it  will  send  people 
to  mend  old  grandad's  cottage,  and  repair 
the  crazy  old  mill.'  These  were  the  wak- 
ing dreams  of  doating  age,  for,  alas,  Dolly 
had  reached  her  seventeenth  year  and  no 
squire  had  yet  made  his  appearance,  to  ve- 
rify her  grandmother's  prophecy.  Howev- 
er, about  this  time  one  of  Mr  Barton's  foot- 
men, a  smart  lad,  about  nineteen  years  old. 
saw  this  paragon  of  rustic  beauty  at  a  neigh- 
boring fair,  and,  unfortunately  for  his  mas- 
ter's horses  from  that  day,  whenever  he  was 
despatched  to  the  neighboring  town  or  vil- 
lages on  messages,  errands,  or  what  not,  he 
always  found  the  old  miller's  cottage  lay  di- 
rectly in  the  way  between  Belle  Park  and 
the  place  to  which  he  was  despatched. 

One  evening  Mr  Barton   having  mounted 
his  horse  and  called  Thomas  to  attend  him 
12* 


138  REBECCA. 

in  his  intended  excursion,  being  undeter- 
mined which  way  to  go,  asked  the  lad  if  he 
had  discovered  lately  any  new  ride;  for, 
said  he  1  have  gone  the  old  track  so  often  1 
am  weary  of  it.  Thomas,  full  of  the  charms 
of  Dolly,  and  eager  to  embrace  the  smallest 
opportunity  of  beholding  them,  or  at  least 
the  cottage  that  contained  them,  asked  his 
master  if  he  had  ever  rode  by  Gaffer  Job- 
son^  mill. 

"Tis  not  above  seven  miles  off",  your  hon- 
or, and  is  the  sweetest  romantickest  kind  of 
a  place,  with  trees  and  rocks  and  a  river: 
then  the  mill  is  so  old,  your  honor,  that  it 
looks,  for  all  the  world,  like  the  places  we 
read  about  in  story  books.' 

Barton  smiled,  and  being  directed  by 
Thomas  as  to  the  road  he  was  to  take,  can- 
tered off,  followed  by  the  happy  lover,  ex- 
ulting in  the  thought  of  seeing  his  mistress, 
though  it  were  but  for  a  moment.  But,  per- 
haps, thought  he,  master  may  stop  to  look  at 
the  place,  and  then  I  can  slip  in  for  a  minute, 
and  just  speak  to  Dolly. 

Alas,  poor  Thomas,  thou  art  as  blind  as 
many  other  wise  politicians,  or  thou  wouldst 
never  have  taken  thy  master  to  see  the  cot- 
tage and  the  mill. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  withdraw  itself 
behind  the  hill  tops,  when  gaffer  having 
lighted  his  pipe  and  gammar  put  by  her 
wheel,  had  seated  themselves  on  the  steps 


REBECCA.  1 39 

of  their  cottage,  to  talk  over. old  times,  and 
dream,  as  usual,  of  Dolly's  good  fortune — 
Dolly  had  just  tied  on  a  clean  colored  apron, 
smoothed  back  her  luxuriant  chestnut  hair, 
and  seated  beneath  a  tree  not  far  distant 
from  the  door,  was  earnestly  contriving  to 
dispose  to  the.  best  advantage  three  yards  of 
cherry  colored  riband,  which  Thomas  had 
given  her,  round  a  chip-hat,  in  which  she 
thought  to  outshine  all  her  companions  the 
next  Sunday  at  church,  Lifting  her  eyes 
from  this  very  interesting  employment,  who 
should  she  see  but  the  identical  J\Jr  Thomas 
and  a  fine  young  gentleman  riding  towards 
the  mill. 

Up  she  bounced.  'See,  see,  grandad,' 
said  she,  eagerly,  'see  yon  fine  gentleman 
and  Mr  Thomas.' 

She  spake  loud,  the  evening  was  serene; 
her  voice  vibrated  on  the  ear  of  Barton;  he 
turned  his  head,  the  old  mill,  the  trees,  and 
rocks  were  no  longer  interesting  objects. — 
'I  will  have  a  little  chat  with  the  old  man,' 
said  he,  guiding  his  horse  that  way,  but  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  lovely  form  of  Dollj'. 
He  chatted  with  the  old  couple  till  nearly 
dark,  and  as  he  rode  homeward  could  think 
only  on  the  charms  of  their  grand-daughter. 
The  next  evening  fie  rode  that  way  again, 
unattended,  talked  something  about  repair- 
ing the  mill,  and  kissed  Dolly  at  parting. 
Another  and   asother  interview  succeeded. 


140  REBECCA. 

Thomas  was  constantly  kept  employed  at 
home,  and  a  few  guineas,  a  new  gown,  and 
two  or  three  glittering  gewgaws  had  the 
power  to  banish  him  as  entirely  from  Dol- 
ly's memory,  as  though  he  had  never  held 
a  place  there.  The  squire  as  she  called 
him,  occupied  all  her  thought,  and  awell  a 
day  for  poor  human  nature,  the  squire  tri- 
umphed over  all  the  virtue  Dolly  ever  pos- 
sessed. The  old  folks  too,  wilfully  shut  their 
eyes,  and  in  listening  to  projected  repairs, 
and  thinking  of  future  prosperity,  forgot  it 
was  to  be  purchased  by  the  infamy  of  their 
grand-daughter. 

But  Barton  was  by  no  means  a  liberal 
lover ;  he  talked  much,  but  performed  little  5 
and  though  he  slept  several  nights  in  a  week 
at  gaffer  Jobson's,  he  was  content  to  sleep 
on  their  homely  mattress,  nor  once  thought 
of  providing  another. 

Poor  Thomas,  mortified  to  the  soul,  could 
not  conceal  his  vexation,  nor  did  he  make  a 
secret  of  the  canse  among  his  fellow-ser- 
vants. It  was  whispered  from  one  to  anoth- 
er, till  at  length  it  reached  Mrs  Barton;  not 
from  Rebecca,  for  she  would  not  have  told 
such  a  tale  to  a  distressed  wife  to  obtain  the 
highest  consideration  ;  she  would  have  fear- 
ed the  effect  it  would  Have  on  her  feelings, 
and  agonized  with  the  poor  sufferer  in  idea 
a  thousand  times.  But  Mrs  Barton  was  a 
woman  of  spirit;  she  felt  her  husband's  neg- 


REBECCA.  141 

lect  severely,  but  she  would  more  severely 
have  felt  the  pity  of  her  servants;  she  took 
care,  therefore,  not  to  appear  to  need  it. 

'Do  you  know,  child,1  said  she  to  Rebec- 
ca one  day  as  she  was  assisting  her  to  dress, 
'do  you  know,  child,  that  this  truant  hus- 
band of  mine  is  fallen  in  love  with  some 
chubby  faced  little  chit  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  prefers  the  company  of  her  and  her  ig- 
norant relations  to  my  elegant  society,  and 
their  hard  bed  and  coarse  sheets  to  his  own 
made  of  down  and  covered  with  the  finest 
holland;  do  you  not  think  the  man  is  turned 
fool  ?' 

She  said  this  with  such  a  smile  of  good 
humor,  that  Rebecca  looked  at  her  with 
amazement,  and  hesitatingly  replied,  'He 
is  certainly  blind  to  his  own  comfort  and  fe- 
licity, madam.' 

'  Oh,  no,  I  dare  say  the  indulgence  of  these 
whims  constitutes  what  he  calls  happiness; 
but  I  must  confess  he  seems  totally  indiffer- 
ent about  mine,  and  as  this  is  the  case,  I 
shall  take  what  steps  I  think  proper  to  se- 
cure some  for  myself.  Now  I  have  a  vast 
desire  to  soe  this  irresistible  lass  of  the  mill, 
and  as  I  know  that  he  dines  at  Mr  Thorn- 
hill's  to  day,  this  afternoon  1  will  pay  her  a 
visit,  and  you  shall  accompany  me.' 

Rebecca  thought  this  an  odd  step,  but  she 
had  a  high  opinion  of  IV] rs  Barton's  sense 
and  prudence,  and  therefore  prepared  to  at- 


142  REBECCA 

tend  her,  without  intimating  the  least  disap- 
probation of  the  scheme,  which  she  certain- 
ly would  have  ventured  to  do,  had  she  not 
been  satisfied  that  her  lady  had  some  very 
good  reasons  for"  her  conduct. 

About  four  o'clock  they  stepped  into  the 
chariot,  and  proceeded  to  the  mill  without 
any  attendant.  They  left  the  carriage  with- 
in half  a  mile  of  the  cottage,  and  went  thith- 
er on  foot,  pretended  weariness,  and  asked 
leave  to  rest  and  have  a  draught  of  water. 
'  Would  yon  like  a  little  wine  in  your  water, 
my  lady?1  said  the  old  woman. 

'  I  should  hadly  have  supposed,'  replied 
Mrs  B  irion,  'that  your  cottage  afforded 
such  a  luxury.' 

kWhy,  in  good  truth,  we  ne'er  had  such  a 
thing  before,  and  now  gaffer  and  1  don't 
much  core  for  drinking  a'nt,  we'd  rather 
have  a  cup  of  yale:  hut  squire  that  courts 
our  Dolly  sent  some  that  he  may  have  a  lit- 
tle when  he  comes.' 

'Your  daughter  is  going  to  be  married 
then?' 

"Tis  my  grand-daughter,  my  lady,'  said 
the  old  woman,  courtesying.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  hack  door  opened  and  in  bounced 
Dolly.  She  blushed,  courtesied  awkward- 
ly, and  would  have  spoken,  but  was  at  a 
loss  what  to  say.  Prepared  as  Mrs  Barton 
wras  to  see  something  extremely  lovely,  the 
charms  of  this  little  rustic  surpassed  her  im- 


REBECCA.  1  £3 

Agination.  '  What  a  lovely  creature,1  said 
she,  softly,  to  Rebecca,  'how  could  Barton 
be  so  wantonly  cruel  as  to  contaminate  the 
soul  that  animates  this  beauteous  form.'  The 
tears  started  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  but 
she  brushed  them  away  unperceived.  -And 
so,  my  dear,  you  are  going  to  be  married, 
I  undertand,  and  to  a  squire.  I  have  some 
idea  he  is  a  friend  of  mine.  1  believe  he 
spends  much  of  his  time  here,  but  I  think 
your  accommodations  are  not  very  brilliant. 
You  must  give  me  leave  to  send  you  some 
better  furniture,  and  to  give  orders  to  have 
your  house  repaired.  And  should  your  lover 
inquire  who  ordered  these  things,  tell  him  it 
was  a  lady  who  has  a  great  regard  for  him, 
and  lives  at  the  old-fashioned  house  in  the 
park.1 

Manifold  were  the  courtesies  and  awk- 
ward acknowledgments  poured  forth  by  the 
grandmother  and  Dolly,  but  Mrs  Barton  im- 
agined she  saw  in  the  countenance  of  the  lat- 
ter mingled  shame  and  regret.  '  If  we  could 
save  this  poor  girl,1  said  she  to  Rebecca, 
when  they  were  seated  again  in  the  carriage, 
'  If  we  could  save  her  and  teach  her  the  val- 
ue of  the  gem  she  has  thus  unconsciously 
thrown  away,  we  might  then  lead  her  back 
to  virtire,  and,  spite  of  her  errors,  she  may 
yet  become  a  valuable  member  of  society.' 

The  carriage  drove  to  the  nearest  town, 
when  Mrs  Barton  went  to  an  upholsterer's 


144  REBECCA. 

and  ordered  whatever  she  thought  necessa- 
ry, to  be  taken  immediately  to  the  cottage; 
she  likewise  engaged  a  carpenter  to  send 
people  the  next  day  to  begin  the  repairs, 
and  on  returning  home,  she  despatched  a 
large  bundle  of  sheets,  table-linen,  &c.  by  a 
poor  laborer  who  knew  nothing  of  the  re- 
ports current  in  the  family.  Rebecca  easi- 
ly saw  her  lady's  design,  and  almost  trem- 
bled for  the  event;  indeed  Mrs  Barton  her- 
self could  scarcely  have  been  less  agitated. 
That  night  Barton  returned  late,  and  having 
a  large  party  to  dine  the  next  day,  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  visit  his  fair  dulcinen 
till  the  ensuing  morning,  and  then,  just  as  he 
was  going,  a  gentleman  arrived  from  town 
and  detained  him  till  after  dinner. 

'  1  shall  not  be  at  home  tonight,  Betsey,' 
said  he,  as  he  mounted  his  horse,  '  I  have  an 
engagement  with  two  or  three  jovial  fellows, 
and  shall  not  like  to  ride  home  late.' 

Mrs  Barton  smiled;  'I  wish  you  a  pleas- 
ant evening,'  said  she,  'and  as  1  am  sure  of 
your  being  out  of  the  way,  I  will  send  for 
my  gallant.' 

'You  threaten  well,  Betsey,  but  I  have  loo 
good  an  opinion  of  you  to  fear  its  execution.' 

Tea  and  supper  were  served  without  Mrs 
Barton's  being  any  the  better  for  them  ;  she 
became  violently  agitated ;  Rebecca  was 
summoned  to  attend  her,  but  alas,  Rebecca 
could  not  comfort  her.     The  clock  had  just 


REBECCA.  145 

struck  eleven  when  the  bell  at  the  great  gate 
was  rung  with  violence. 

'He  is  returned,'  said  she,  'and  a  few  mi- 
nutes will  now  decide  my  fate.  My  good 
Rebecca  leave  me.' 

Barton  entered  the  room  with  the  looks  of 
a  condemned  criminal.  'Betsey,'  said  he, 
'  where  were  you  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and  how  did  you  employ  your  time?' 

'  Not  in  a  manner  disagreeable  to  you,  I 
hope,'  said  she,  mildly;  'I  had  heard  how 
partial  you  were  to  sleeping  at  the  mill  cot- 
tage, and  I  took  a  ride  to  see  if  you  were 
well  accommodated;  but  I  found  the  bed 
intolerable,  and  the  house  in  such  a  miser- 
able state,  I  thought  you  ran  great  risks  of 
getting  cold  ;  so,  being  unwilling  to  lose  you, 
I  thought  it  was  my  duly,  as  a  good  wife,  to 
provide  you  with  better  conveniences.' 

'My  dear  Betsey,  how  can  you  talk  thus 
calmly,  when  you  know  how  much  I  have 
injured  you?' 

'Barton,'  said  she,  with  a  firm  look  and 
voice,  '  I  am  not  now  to  learn  that  I  am  no 
longer  beloved ;  but  it  was  no  reason  be- 
cause you  had  grown  weary  of  home,  you 
should  trifle  away  your  life  by  sleeping  in  a 
place  almost  entirely  open  to  nightly  dews, 
and  unsheltered  even  by  curtains  to  your 
bed.  But  mark  me,  my  dear  Barton,  that 
I  love  you,  1  trust  you  have  had  innumer- 
able incontestible  proofs;  but  if  I  am  no  lon- 
13 


146  REBECCA. 

ger  beloved,  if  ray  society  and  endearments 
can  no  longer  give  3  ou  pleasure,  let  us  part. 
Why  should  you  deprive  yourself  of  the 
comforts  and  conv  eniences  of  life  ?  Let  our 
fortune  t'e  divided  ;  leave  me  to  solitude 
and  (piiet  in  this  place,  and  take  your  favor- 
ite to  the  Elms.  But  1  charge  you,  Barton, 
delay  not  a  day  to  make  her  a  proper  set- 
tlement, lest  you  hereafter  grow  weary  of 
her,  and  she  fall  a  victim  to  poverty  and  in- 
famy. She  is  a  beauteous  flower,  pity  it  is 
she  was  ever  transplanted  into  the  garden 
of  folly.' 

1  Betsey,1  said  he,  dropping  on  his  knees 
before  her,  and  taking  both  her  hands,  v  Bet- 
sey, you  are  an  angel,  and  I  am  totally  un- 
worthy your  forgiveness;  I  see  my  doom,  1 
see  my  foil}'  has  banished  all  the  tenderness 
of  your  heart,  and  you  wish  to  be  separated 
from  a  wretch  who  has  treated  you  so  un- 
worthily.' 

'You  are  mistaken,  Barton,  if  you  think  I 
wish  to  be  separated  from  you,  could  I  once 
more  be  the  mistress  of  your  affections;  to 
live  with  you.  to  love  you,  to  promote  your 
happiness  would  be  the  pleasure  of  my  life, 
but  I  cannot  have  a  divided  heart;  if  anoth- 
er is  preferred,  let  me  not,  by  constantly 
witnessing  your  indifference  towards  myself, 
suffer  pains  too  acute  to  be  borne  without 
complaining.' 

*  Oh,  Betsey  !  dearest  girl,  forgive  me,  and 


REBECCA.  147 

lake  my  whole,  my  undivided  heart;  do 
with  it  what  you  please,  it  never  shall  again 
wander  from  you,  its  chosen  mistress.' 

Mrs  Barton  could  no  longer  combat  ihe 
impulse  of  her  throbbing  heart;  she  drop- 
ped her  head  on  the  forehead  of  her  repent- 
ant husband,  and  tears  of  unfeigned  joy  rat- 
ified their  reconciliation. 

'But  what  must  we  do  with  poor  Dully?' 
said  she,  after  a  pause  of  a  few  moments. 

1 1  commit  her  to  your  care,  my  love,'  re- 
plied Barton,  'sensible  that  you  will  do 
whatever  is  best  for  her  future  well  doing; 
for  my   part,  I  will  never  see  her  again.-' 

'  Nay,  Barton,  keep  your  passions  under 
the  guidance  of  reason,  and  you  may  sec 
her  without  danger.' 

Mrs  Barton  let  no  time  elapse  in  merely 
forming  plans  for  Doll}'.  She  look  an  op- 
portunity to  sound  Thomas's  sentiments  con- 
cerning her,  and  found  the  poor  lad  as  deep- 
ly in  love  as  ever.  'And  would  you  be  wil- 
ling to  marry  her,  Thomas,  provided  the 
mill  was  repaired,  and  she  had  a  few  acres 
of  ground  well  stocked?'  Thomas  replied  in 
the  affirmative,  and  Dolly  being  found  no 
ways  unwilling  to  comply,  a  few  weeks 
made  them  man  and  wife.  Barton  desired 
his  lady  to  spare  no  expense  necessary  to 
make  them  quite  comfortable,  and  he  liter- 
ally kept  his  promise  of  never  seeing  Dolly 
again. 


148  REBECCA. 

But  though  his  resolves  in  regard  to  fu- 
ture constancy  were  seriously  made,  his 
heart  was  made  of  such  inflammable  mattcrT 
t!h)t  he  no  sooner  began  to  contemplate  the 
unassuming  charms  of  Bebecca,  which,  from 
being  much  at  home,  he  had  now  sufficient 
leisure  to  do.  than  he  found  himself  puzzled 
to  keep  his  good  resolutions;  and  being  un- 
accustomed to  combat  his  inclinations,  he 
found  this  first  attempt  at  self-conquest  too 
painful  to  be  persevered  in;  and  Mrs  Bar- 
ton, with  anguish  of  heart,  saw  he  was  again 
relapsing  into  indifference  and  inconstancy. 

Rebecca  too  saw,  with  evident  displeas- 
ure, i  he  many  opportunities  he  took  of  throw- 
ing himself  in  her  way.  It  was  sometimes 
impossible  to  avoid  listening  to  him  on  a  sub- 
ject which  filled  her  with  disgust  and  sor- 
row. He  offered  her  several  valuable  trink- 
ets, which  she  resolutely  refused  to  accept; 
but  at  length  his  conduct  became  so  une- 
quivocal, that  Rebecca  determined  to  quit 
her  amiable  mistress,  however  unwilling  to 
relinquish  a  situation  in  which  she  had  en- 
joyed so  much  tranquillity. 

Mrs  Barton  quickly  discovered  the  mo- 
tives of  our  heroine's  intention,  and  honored 
her  for  them. 

'You  are  a  truly  amiable  girl,  Rebecca,' 
said  she,  kand  I  will  not  part  with  you,  till 
I  can  recommend  you  to  some  person  who 
will  be  sensible  of  your  value,1 


REBECCA.  *     149 

The  next  morning  Mrs  Barton  informed 
her  that,  during  a  visit  she  had  made  the 
preceding  afternoon,  she  had  heard  of  a  sit- 
uation which  she  thought  might  prove  high- 
ly advantageous  to  her.  '  But,  perhaps,' 
said  she,  'you  would  not  like  to  leave  Eng- 
land.' 

'  All  places  are  alike  to  me,'  said  Rebec* 
ca;  "I  have  so  very  few  friends  who  inter* 
esl  themselves  at  all  in  my  welfare,  that 
provided  my  mother  gives  her  assent,  1  can 
have  no  objection  to  quitting  a  place  where 
every  tie  is  broken  that  once  rendered  it 
most  dear  to  me.' 

'Well  then,'  said  Mrs  Barton,  'there  is  a 
young  lady  who  has  been  in  England  for 
her  education;  she  is  now  about  sixteen 
years  old,  of  an  amiable  temper,  and  highly 
accomplished.  Her  father,  who  resides  in 
America,  has  sent  for  her  home,  and  her 
governess  has  been  inquiring  for  a  prudent 
well  educated  young  person  to  accompany 
her.  The  terms  offered  are  fifty  guineas, 
and  all  expenses  paid,  and  should  you  not 
approve  of  residing  there,  on  your  arrival, 
they  will  pay  your  passage  back  again. 

'Colonel  Abthorpe  is  a  man  of  large  for- 
tune; he  has  formerly  served  in  the  army, 
but  at'  the  conclusion  of  the  war  resigned 
his  commission,  and  retired  to  America,  his 
lady  being  a  native  of  that  place.  Miss  Ab- 
thorpe goes  out  in  about  six  weeks,  and  if 
13* 


150  REBECCA. 

you  should  like  to  accompany  her,  I  have 
no  doubt  hut  you  are  the  kind  of  person  that 
will  suit  her.1 

Rebecca  was  pleased  with  the  proposal; 
she  waited  on  the  lady  with  whom  Miss  Ab- 
thorpe  had  been  educated,  and  was  highly 
approved  of,  both  by  her  and  the  young  la- 
dy herself.  She  then  wrote  to  her  mother, 
and  in  a  few  posts  received  a  letter,  dictated 
by  her  mother,  but  written  by  her  sister-in- 
law,  and  in  such  cold  slighting  terms,  that 
she  easily  saw  they  would  be  glad  to  have 
her  so  far  from  them,  that  there  might  be  no 
danger  of  her  coming  home,  in  case  of  sick- 
ness or  other  contingencies;  she  therefore 
took  leave  of  the  amiable  Mrs  Barton,  who 
could  not  part  with  her  without  tears,  and 
who  presented  her  with  several  valuable  me- 
morials of  her  friendship. 

The  day  after  Rebecca  entered  Miss  Ab- 
thorpe's  service  she  set  off  for  London,  where 
she  was  to  join  Mr  Seward's  family,  who 
were  to  embark  on  board  the  same  ship  with 
her,  and  under  whose  protection  she  was  to 
proceed  to  New-England.  It  was  late  in 
September  when  they  arrived  in  town,  and 
a  variety  of  incidents  detained  them  till  the 
middle  of  October,  so  that  they  had  but  an 
untoward  prospect  before  them,  when  so  late 
in  the  season  they  embarked  at  Deal,  on 
board  a  brig  bound  for  Boston.  A  fair  wind 
presently  took  them  out  of  the  channel,  and 


REBECCA.  151, 

ihey  flattered  themselves  with  a  prosperous 
voyage;  but  these  flattering  appearances 
were  soon  reversed,  for  the  wind  suddenly 
changed,  rising  almost  to  a  hurricane,  so  that 
it  was  impossible  to  pursue  their  intended 
course,  or  return  to  port,  and  they  contin- 
ued tossing  about  in  the  Atlantic  till  the  lat- 
ter end  of  December,  and  then  had  not  half 
made  their  passage,  though  their  provisions 
were  so  exhausted  that  they  were  obliged 
to  live  on  a  very  small  allowance  of  bread  ; 
of  the  water  and  salt  meat  which  they  had, 
together  with  a  few  pease,  they  were  ex- 
tremely careful. 

Poor  Rebecca  heartily  wished  herself  on 
shore  again,  but  sensible  those  wishes  were 
unavailing,  she  confined  them  to  her  own 
bosom,  and  exerted  herself  to  support  the 
spirits  of  Miss  Abthorpe,  who,  naturally  del- 
icate and  unaccustomed  to  fatigue,  was  near- 
ly exhausted  with  terror,  confinement  and 
hunger.  In  a  few  weeks  they  were  reduced 
almost  to  extremities;  they  had  not  even  a 
candle  to  light  the  binnacle  which  contains 
the  compass,  and  the  whole  of  their  allow- 
ance now  amounted  to  one  biscuit  and  half 
a  pint  of  water  per  day  to  each  person.  Mr 
Seward  had  on  board  the  ship  with  him,  be- 
sides two  fine  boys,  the  one  fourteen,  the 
other  twelve  years  old,  a  charming  little  girl 
scarcely  seven.  Mrs  Seward  had  been  dead 
some  years,  and  the  child  was  accompanied 


152  REBECCA. 

by  her  nurse.  The  chief  anguish  this  faith- 
ful servant  felt  was  in  contemplating  her  lit- 
tle charge,  and  thinking  how  she  was  to  be 
preserved;  indeed,  to  such  a  height  did  her 
affection  rise,  that  she  voluntarily  deprived 
herself  of  part  of  the  very  small  portion  al- 
lotted her,  that  she  might  lay  it  by  against 
a  time  of  more  eminent  necessity  for  this 
darling  of  her  heart.* 

It  was.  a  clear  cold  day,  the  wind  blowing 
strongly  against  them,  when  the  master  of 
the  vessel  entered  the  cabin  with  a  smile.  A 
smile  at  that  particular  time  was  received 
by  all  as  a  good  omen,  for  seldom  had  such 
a  thing  been  seen  in  their  melancholy  party. 

'There  is  a  ship  bearing  down  upon  us,' 
said  he ;  '  1  have  made  signal  of  distress,  and 
no  doubt  we  shall  be  relieved.' 

Hope,  sweet  solace  of  the  wretched,  play- 
ed round  the  hearts  of  his  auditors  as  he 
pronounced  these  words;  and  all  who  were 
able  crawled  upon  deck  to  watch,  with  ea- 
ger eyes,  the  near  approach  of  the  expected 
relief.  The  vessel  drew  nigh,  and  the  mas- 
ter inquired  what  was  the  matter. 

'We  are  in  the  utmost  distress,'  said  Mr 
Seward,  who  took  upon  him  to  answer. — 
'  We  have  been  ten  weeks  at  sea,  our  provi- 

f  This  was  a  fact,  the  dear  woman  who  accompanied 
the  author  in  her  first  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  actual- 
ly lived,  for  many  days,  on  half  a  biscuit  a  day,  to  re- 
serve the  other  moiety  for  her. 


REBECCA.  1  S3 

sions  are  exhausted,  and  we  are  in  danger 
of  starving.' 

'I  am  sorry  for  it,'  replied  the  master  of 
the  other  vessel;  'but  though  we  have  a 
good  wind  now,  we  do  not  know  how  soon 
it  may  change,  and  we  may  want  our  provi- 
sions ourselves.'' 

It  was  in  vain  to  attempt  a  reply  ;  the  ves- 
sel was  again  put  before  the  wind,  and  in  a 
few  moments  the  intervening  billows,  which 
rose  to  a  tremendous  height,  hid  her  from 
their  view. 

Silent  and  sad  the  disheartened  mariners 
and  passengers  left  the  deck.  Mr  Seward 
took  his  little  girl  in  his  arms,  his  two  boys 
hung  on  each  side  of  him;  he  endeavored 
at  a  look  of  fortitude,  but  the  gushing  tears 
betrayed  the  anguish  of  the  paternal  heart. 
Rebecca  seated  herself  on  her  bed;  Miss 
Abthorpe  looked  up  in  her  face  for  comfort, 
but  she  had  none  to  offer;  she  sighed  and 
rested  her  head  on  Rebecca's  shoulder. 

1  What  shall  we  do?'  said  she,  mournfully. 

'Trust  in  God,'  replied  Rebecca,  faintly 
pressing  her  hand. 

Miss  Abthorpe  returned  the  pressure,  and 
they  joined  in  fervently  committing  them- 
selves to  the  care  of  Him  who  could  save  to 
the  uttermost. 

Ten  days  more  passed  on  in  this  dreadful 
manner,  when  another  vessel  was  discover- 


154  REBECCA. 

ed,  but,  alas  !  hope  refused  to  cheer  their 
bosoms  with  her  faintest  ray. 

'We  must  make  an  attempt  to  move  their 
compassion,  however,'  said  the  master.  Mr 
Seward  assented  to  the  proposal,  and  they 
ascended  the  deck  together;  but  Rebecca 
and  her  young  lady  sat  pensive  and  silent; 
they  hardly  dared  to  hope,  and  the  sweet 
comforts  of  religion  forbade  them  to  despair. 

The  noise  on  the  deck  prevented  their 
hearing  what  was  said,  or  whether  any  an- 
swer was  returned  to  their  entreaties.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  noise  increased  almost  to  tu- 
mult;  a  confuted  shout  broke  forth,  which 
the  poor  listening  females  mistook  for  a  mur- 
mur of  horror  and  disappointment. 

'They  have  refused  us,'  cried  Miss  Ab- 
thorpc,  endeavoring  to  rise  from  her  bed. 

'1  ani  afraid  they  have,  indeed,'  said  Re- 
becca ;  but  do  not  you  attempt  to  go  on  deck, 
stay  here  and  I  will  go  and  inquire.'  With 
tremulous  and  unequal  steps  after  repeated 
attempts,  Rebecca  reached  the  gang-way. 
She  was  just  going  to  mount  the  steps,  when 
her  intent  was  frustrated  by  a  sudden  mo- 
tion of  the  ship,  and  she  fell  down..  'Hea- 
ven preserve  me!'  said  she,  as  she  slowly 
arose. 

'Heaven  has  preserved  us  all,'  said  Mr 
Seward,  as  he  descended  the  steps,  '  for  look 
my  good  girl,  what  a  dinner  its  bounty  has 
sent  us.' 


REBECCA.  155 

At  that  moment  a  strange  sailor  came 
down  with  a  large  wooden  bowl,  in  which 
was  a  fine  piece  of  boiled  beef,  some  pota- 
toes, and  a  piece  of  pudding. 

'God  bless  your  pretty  hearts!'  said  the 
sailor,  looking  round  at  Rebecca,  Miss  Ab- 
thorpe,  and  the  young  Sewards,  'come,  fall 
to,  and  lay  in  a  good  cargo,  for,  according 
to  the  log,  you  are  light  enough  now.' 

'  You  have  robbed  yourselves,  1  fear,'  said 
Rebecca;  'this  was  intended  for  your  din- 
ners.'. 

'  That  is  neither  here  nor  there,'  said  he, 
putting  a  large  quid  of  tobacco  into  his 
mouih ;  '  and  split  my  topsails  if  I  would  not 
rather  rob  myself  any  time,  than  see  a  bro- 
ther sailor  want  a  dinner.  D— — e  we  soon 
emptied  the  copper  when  we  heard  how 
close  hauled  j*ou  were,  and  set  old  stoke 
galley  to  work,  to  cook  more;  we  brought 
enough  for  all,  and  they  have  fallen  to  above 
board  like  a  parcel  of  hungry  sharks.' 

Oh  ye  sons  and  daughters  of  luxury, 
whose  tables  are  covered  with  themostcost- 
ly  viands,  and  who  turn  from  them  dissatis- 
fied and  unthankful,  could  you  feel  for  a  mo- 
ment the  ecstasy  that  pervaded  the  hearts 
of  the  poor,  weary,  famished  mariners,  who 
now  were  partaking  the  provision  their  char- 
itable brethren  had  brought  them,  you  would 
henceforward  justly  conceive  the  happiness 


1  oG  REBECCA. 

of  jour  own  lot,  and  bow  with  gratitude  to 
the  divine  dispenser  of  all  blessings. 

The  friendly  sailors  now  departed,  hav- 
ing taken  an  inventory  of  what  was  most  re- 
quisite for  the  relief  of  their  brethren,  and 
in  about  a  hour  and  a  half  returned  with 
their  captain,  and  a  supply  of  bread,  cheese, 
meat,  butter,  and  candles ;  also  a  small  quan- 
tity of  spirituous  liquors  to  refresh  the  men. 

'We  must  give  you  a  bill  on  the  owners,' 
said  Mr  Seward,  when  he  had  taken  an  ac- 
count of  the  stores  brought  on  board. 

'No,'  replied  the  generous  captain,  'I 
shall  take  no  bill.  I  expect  no  reward.  I 
may  one  day  be  in  the  same  situation,  and 
have  only  done  as  1  would  be  done  by.' 

*  Exalted  humanity,  noble,  disinterested 
sailor,  may  you  ever  experience  from  your 
fellow  creatures  the  same  benevolence  that 
expands  and  elevates  your  own  heart.  May 
your  days  be  many,  and  your  prosperity 
equal  to  your  deserts. 

Having  taken  a  grateful  leave  of  their 
benefactor,  they,  with  renovated  spirits,  pur- 
sued their  voyage,  and  the  wind  changing, 
in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  drove  them  rap- 
idly towards  their  desired  haven,  so  that  on 
the  twenty-eighth  of  January,  about  two  in 

*  This  apostrophe  is  the  genuine  emotion  of  gratitude, 
the  author  having,  in  a  situation  similar  to  the  one  des- 
cribed here,  experienced  relief  bestowed  in  the  same  dfs- 
interested  manner. 


REBECCA.  15  7 

the  afternoon,  they  heard  the  joyful  news  of 
i  land  ahead.' 

The  port  of  Boston  is  situated  in  such  a 
manner,  that,  after  having  made  land,  six  or 
seven  hours  good  sailing  will  take  a  vessel 
into  safe  harbor,  so  that  our  weary  voyagers 
began  to  think  of  landing  that  evening,  how- 
ever late  it  might  be  when  they  arrived  ; — 
but  as  the  night  came  on,  the  wind  increased, 
accompanied  by  snow  and  sleet;  the  cold  at 
the  same  time  being  intense,  it  froze  as  it 
fell,  and  in  a  very  short  period  the  ropes 
about  the  ship  were  so  incased  in  ice  that 
they  became  immovable;  the  darkness  in- 
creased, and  to  add  to  their  distress,  they 
lost  sight  of  the  light-house  at  the  entrance 
of  the  harbor. 

Their  situation  now  was  imminently  dan- 
gerous ;  driving  before  the  wind,  among  a 
multitude  of  rocks  and  breakers,  without  the 
least  chance  of  avoiding  them;  to  be  ship- 
wrecked in  the  very  sight  of  home,  was  a 
painful  trial  indeed,  yet  this  was  what  all  ex- 
pected, and  for  which  all  endeavored  to  pre- 
pare themselves  with  patient  resignation. 

About  ten  o'clock  all  their  fears  were  re- 
alized, and  a  sudden  shock  convinced  them 
they  had  struck  on  some  rocks.  The  ensu- 
ing scene  from  that  time  till  seven  the  nc*t 
morning  is  better  imagined  than  described, 
for  till  that  time  they  had  no  prospect  of  re- 
lief, but  continued  beating  on  the  rocks,  the 
14 


158  REBECCA. 

I 
waves  washing  over  (hem,  and  expecting 
momentary  dissolution.  As  the  day-light 
advanced  they  discovered  the  island,  from 
which  the  reef  ran,  to  be  inhabited.  Sever- 
al muskets  were  immediately  discharged, 
and  signals  hung  out,  and  about  eight  o'clock 
they  discovered  people  coming  to  their  as- 
sistance. It  was  impossible  to  bring  a  boat 
near  the  vessel,  but  the  tide  beginning  to 
leave  her,  the  men  waded  into  the  water, 
and  placed  a  ladder  against  her  side,  down 
which  the  fear  of  immediate  death  gave  Miss 
Abthorpe  and  Rebecca  courage  to  descend  ; 
but  what  were  the  feelings  of  IVlr  Seward, 
when  he  found  the  impossibility  of  his  little 
daughter's  going  down,  so  dangerous  was  it 
rendered  by  the  ice  that  enveloped  the 
steps  of  the  ladder,  and  whence,  if  she  fell, 
she  must  have  been  dashed  to  pieces,  or  lost 
among  the  rocks;  nor  did  he  dare  to  ven- 
ture to  descend  himself  with  her  in  his  arms, 
lest  a  false  step  or  slip  might  destroy  them 
both.  But  there  was  not  time  for  much  de- 
liberation, as  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
leave  the  ship  before  the  tide  returned.  At 
length  an  old  sailor  offered  an  expedient 
which  was  thought  feasible;  and  the  agitated 
parent  fastened  a  strong  cord  round  the 
'.«aist  of  his  child,  by  which  he  lowered  her 
down  the  side  of  the  vessel;  the  old  sailor 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  bore  her  exult- 
ingly  to  the  shore. 


REBECCA.  lo3 

A  new  world  was  now  opened  to  Rebec- 
ca, who,  when  she  was  a  little  recovered, 
beheld  with  astonishment  how  every  object 
was  bound  in  the  frigid  chains  of  winter. — 
The  harbor  which  she  could  see  from  the 
house  on  the  island,  was  one  continued  sheet 
of  ice.  The  face  of  the  country  was  entire- 
ly covered  with  snow,  and  from  the  appear- 
ance of  all  around  she  could  form  no  proba- 
ble hope  of  getting  to  colonel  Abthorpe's  till 
the  genial  influence  of  spring  should  unbind 
their  fetters;  but  in  this  she  was  agreeably 
mistaken,  for  the  inhabitants  of  those  cold 
cHmB4.es  being  accustomed  to  the  weather, 
were  quick  in  expedients  to  facilitate  their 
conveyance  from  one  place  to  another.  The 
very  next  morning  a  boat  was  procured,  and 
men  placed  at  the  head  to  break  the  ice  as 
they  proceeded.  By  two  o'clock  on  the  thir- 
tieth of  January,  1767,  our  heroine  found 
herself  once  more  on  terra  firma,  comforta- 
bly seated  at  a  large  fire,  in  colonel  Ab- 
thorpe's parlor;  for  during  the  voyage  Miss 
Abthorpe  had  conceived  such  an  esteem  for 
her,  that  she  insisted  on  her  being  consid- 
ered as  a  friend  and  sister,  and  her  parents 
had  too^  high  a  respect  for  their  daughter, 
to  wish  to  contradict  so  laudable  a  desire. 


160  REBECCA. 


CHAPTER  X. 


On  the  left  hand  of  the  entrance  of  Boston 
harbor  is  a  beautiful  liitle  peninsula,  called 

N ;  ii   consists   of  two  gradually  rising 

hills,  beautifully  diversified  with  orchards, 
corn-fields,  and  pasture  land.  In  the  valley 
is  built  a  little  village,  consisting  of  about 
fifty  houses,  the  inhabitants  of  which  could 
just  make  shift  to  decently  support  a  minis- 
ter, who  on  a  Sunday  ascended  the  pulpit, 
in  a  rustic  temple,  situated  by  the  side  of  a 
piece  of  water,  nearly  in  the  middle  of  the 
village,  and  taught,  to  the  utmost  of  his  abil- 
ities, the  true  principles  of  Christianity. — 
The  neck  of  land  that  joins  this  peninsula 
to  the  main  is  extremely  narrow,  and  indeed 
is  sometimes  almost  overflowed  by  the  tide. 
On  one  side  it.  forms  a  charming  picturesque 
harbor,  in  which  arc  a  variety  of  small  but 
delightfully  fertile  islands,  and  on  the  other 
it  is  washed  by  the  ocean,  to  which  it  lays 
open.  In  this  enchanting  village  stood  Mr 
Abthorpe's  house,  in  the  midst  of  a  neat  and 
well  cultivated  garden;  and  here  it  was  as 
the  spring  advanced,  our  contemplative  he- 
roine beheld  with  rapture  the  rapid  progress 
of  the  infant  vegetation,  for  the  earth  seemed 
hardly  released  from  the  fleecy  garb  of  win- 
ter, before  it  burst  forth  in  the  full  bloom  of 
vernal  pride. 


REBECCA.  1  G 1 

In  this  agreeable  situation  Rebecca  re- 
mained nearly  six  years,  enjoying  as  much 
felicity  as  she  could  expect  in  the  friendship 
of  Mr  and  Mrs  Abthorpe  and  the  affection 
of  their  amiable  daughter.  It  is  true  she 
sometimes  sighed  when  she  thought  of  sir 
George  Worthy — sometimes  gazed  on  his 
portrait  and  that  of  his  mother  till  her  eyes, 
overflowing,  could  no  longer  discern  them. 
But  these  were  luxuries,  too  dangerous  to 
be  often  indulged  in,  they  only  served  to 
enervate  her  mind,  and  render  her  incapa- 
ble of  enjoying  the  blessings  placed  within 
reach,  and  led  her  to  repine  at  the  wise  dis- 
pensations of  Providence;  she  therefore  ex- 
erted her  natural  good  sense  to  keep  these 
acute  sensibilities  within  proper  restrictions, 
and  by  striving  to  be  happy  in  her  present 
situation,  in  a  great  measure  became  so.' — 
She  had  many  admirers,  and  might  have 
entered  into  matrimonial  engagements  great- 
ly to  her  advantage,  but  she  resolutely  re- 
fused them  all,  still  maintaining  towards 
each  that  invariable  politeness  and  frank- 
ness of  demeanor,  as  at  the  same  moment 
extinguished  their  tenderer  hopes  and  yet 
conciliated  their  esteem.' 

In  the  course  of  this  time  she  had  received 
two  lettters  from  Mrs  Barton,  and  one  from 
her  mother;  the  former  informed  her  that 
her  husband  was  entirely  reclaimed,  that 
she  was  the  happiest  woman  in  the  creation, 
14* 


162  REBECCA. 

and  that  she  hoped  she  should  one  day  have 
Rebecca  a  witness  to  her  felicity;  the  con- 
tents of  the  latter  was  not  so  pleasing;  hen 
mother  complained  of  ill-treatment  from  her 
daughter-in-law,  and  extravagance  in  her 
husband  ;  at  the  same  time  she  informed  her, 
she  had  just  lain  in  of  a  boy,  who  she  hoped 
would  be  the  comfort  of  her  old  age. 

'I  wish  to  heaven  he  may,'  said  Rebecca, 
then  laying  down  the  letter  and  reflecting 
how  many  leagues  she  was  from  her  only 
surviving  parent;  that  perhaps  she  might 
be  in  heavy  affliction,  ill-treated  by  those 
on  whom  she  had  placed  the  firmest  reli- 
ance, laughed  at  by  the  world,  and  not  un- 
likely pinched  by  poverty.  The  gentle 
hearted  girl  burst  into  tears — 'Ah!'  said 
she, 'why  did  1  leave  my  native  country?  I 
should  have  remembered  that  my  poor  mo- 
ther had  no  real  friend  but  me,  on  whom 
she  could  safely  rely  for  comfort  in  sickness 
or  affliction;  1  should  have  remembered, 
that  though  she  had  preferred  the  friendship 
of  others  to  mine,  it  was  still  my  duty  not  to 
leave  her  exposed  to  misfortunes,  which  my 
presence  and  tender  assiduities  might  have 
alleviated.' 

About  this  time  the  unhappy  breach  be- 
tween Great  Britain  and  her  colonies  arose 
to  such  a  height,  that  it  never  could  be  heal- 
ed, and  war,  in  her  most  frightful  shape,  be- 
gan to  stalk  over  this  once  happy  land.    Ere 


REBECCA.  163 

this,  the  inhabitants  of  New-England,  by 
their  hospitality  and  primitive  simplicity  of 
manners,  revived  in  the  mind  of  our  heroine 
the  golden  age,  so  celebrated  by  poets. — 
Here  were  no  locks  or  bolts  required,  for 
each  one,  content  with  his  own  cot,  coveted 
.not  the  possessions  of  his  neighbor;  here, 
should  a  stranger  make  his  appearance  in 
their  little  village,  though  unknown  by  all, 
every  one  was  eager  to  show  him  the  most 
civility,  inviting  him  to  their  houses,  and 
treating  him  with  every  delicacy  the  sim- 
plicity of  their  manner  of  living  afforded. 

The  only  house  of  entertainment  in  this 
village  had  not  custom  enough  to  support 
its  venerable  mistress  with  the  necessaries 
of  life ;  but  she  had  a  garden,  a  cow,  and  a 
few  acres  of  land,  the  produce  of  these  were 
sufficient  to  supply  her  wants  and  wishes, 
and  she  would  sit  in  her  malted  arm-chair, 
in  a  room  whose  only  beauty  was  '  the  white 
washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor,'  while 
the  smile  of  content  played  about  her  face, 
and  while  she  thankfully  enjoyed  the  boun- 
ties of  heaven,  she  remembered  not  that  any 
could  be  richer  or  happier  than  herself. 

But  when  fell  discord  spread  her  sable 
pinion,"  and  shook  her  curling  snakes,  how 
soon  this  blissful  prospect  was  reversed; — 
frighted  at  the  horrid  din  of  arms,  hospital-* 
ity  fled  her  once  favorite  abode,  mutual  con- 
fidence was  no  more,  and  fraternal  love  gave 


164  REBECCA. 

place  to  jealousy,  dissension,  and  blind  par- 
ty zeal.  The  son  raised  his  unhallowed 
arm  against  his  parent,  brothers  drenched 
their  weapons  in  each  other's  blood,  and  all 
was  horror  and  confusion.  The  terrified  in- 
habitants of  N  left  the  village  and  took 
refuge  in  the  more  interior  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, all  but  Mr  Abthorpe's  family,  who  still 
remained,  though  deserted  by  all  their  ser- 
vants ;  for  the  colonel  had  too  high  a  regard 
for  his  royal  master  to  join  the  cause  of  his 
enemies,  and  it  was  impossible  to  join  the 
British  troops  without  relinquishing  all  his 
property ;  he  therefore  hoped  the  storm 
would  soon  pass  over;  that  some  method 
would  be  proposed  and  accepted  to  concili- 
ate matters,  and  in  the  mean  time  he  wished 
to  remain  neuter. 

It  was  a  still  morning,  about  the  latter 
end  of  July,  when  Rebecca,  being  disturbed 
by  some  little  rustling  at  her  window,  raised 
her  head,  and,  by  the  faint  dawn  that  just 
glimmered  from  the  east,  discovered  armed 
men  placed  round  the  house.  Alarmed,  she 
started  from  her  bed  and  awoke  Miss  A  b- 
thorpe;  they  threw  a  few  clothes  over  them 
and  flew  to  the  colonel's  apartment.  They 
were  met  by  Mrs  Abthorpe,  who  caught  her 
daughter  in  her  arms,  and,  pointing  to  the 
room  where  they  usually  slept,  cried,  'look 
Sophia,  your  poor  father.1 

Miss  Abthorpe  looked  and  beheld  two  sol- 


REBECCA.  165 

dicrs  with  firelocks,  who,  placed  at  the  door 
of  the  apartment,  held  her  father  a  prisoner. 

4  Ah,  my  dear  mother,'  said  she,  ;  who  are 
these,  and  what  are  they  going  to  do?  sure- 
ly, surely  they  will  not  murder  us.' 

'Don't  frighten  yourself,  Miss,1  said  one 
of  the  men,  l  we  do  not  usually  murder  such 
pretty  girls.1 

1  But  my  father,'  cried  she,  eagerly, '  what 
do  you  intend  to  do  with  him?1 

'Set  him  at  liberty  again  when  our  expe- 
dition is  over.1 

Rebecca  now  learnt  that  these  were  a 
part  of  the  American  army,  who  had  come 

to  N in   whale  boats,    with  a  design  of 

dragging  their  boats  across  the  beach  be- 
fore-mentioned, and  proceeding  to  the  light- 
house at  the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  intend- 
ing to  destroy  it,  in  order  to  mislead  the  ex- 
pected relief  that  was  coming  to  Boston, 
which  was  at  that  time  besieged  by  the 
American  army  and  in  possession  of  the 
British :  they  had  before  made  an  unsuc- 
cessful attempt  to  demolish  this  light-house, 
and  were  now  come  resolved  not  to  leave 
their  work  unfinished  ;  accordingly  they  pro- 
ceeded as  quietly  as  possible  to  the  beach, 
almost  carried  their  boats  over,  and  arrived 
totally  unexpected  at  the  little  island  on 
which  the  light-house  stood,  and  which  was 
guarded  by  a  party  of  marines.  A  smart 
skirmish   ensued,  but  the  Americans  were 


1 66  REBECCA. 

too  numerous  to  he  withstood  by  so  small 
a  party;  the  whole  of  which  were  either 
killed  or  taken  prisoners;  and  having  com- 
pleted their  designs,  returned  to  N ,  vic- 
torious, though  in  the  utmost  consternation 
for  fear  of  hcing  pursued  by  boats  from  the 
Lively  frigate,  and  other  ships  that  lay  in 
the  harbor. 

Rebecca  was  standing  at  a  window  as 
they  relanded,the  tears  streaming  down  her 
pale  face,  and  so  entirely  absorbed  in  terror 
that  she  was  inattentive  to  the  surrounding 
objects.  From  this  slate  of  torpor  she  was 
aroused  by  a  deep  groan,  and,  raising  her 
eyes,  saw  two  Americans  entering  the  house, 
bearing  between  them  a  wounded  marine, 
whom  they  laid  on  the  floor,  and  were  pre- 
paring to  depart,  when  Mrs  Abthorpe  rush- 
ed out  of  the  adjoining  apartment. 

'What  are  you  doing?1  said  she,  'you  will 
not  surely  leave  him  here.' 

'  D n   him,'  cried  a  wretch,  'be   is  in 

our  way;  if  he  don't  die  quickly,  we  will 
kill  him.' 

'  Oh,  do  not  kill  me,'  said  the  almost  expir- 
ing soldier ;  'lam  not  fit  to  die.' 

At  this  moment  major  Tupper  entered. — 
Mrs  Abthorpe  addressed  him  in  a  supplicat- 
ing accent;  'We  can  procure  the  poor  soul 
no  assistance,'  said  she;  'he  will  perish  for 
want  of  proper  applications  to  stanch  the 
blood,' 


REBECCA.  16? 

'  My  clear  madam,'  said  the  major,  '  what 
can  we  do  ?  we  fear  pursuit,  and  must  retreat 
as  fast  as  possible,  and  should  wc  take  him 
with  us,  in  our  hurry  and  confusion  he  will, 
perhaps,  be  precipitated  into  eternity.  If 
we  make  a  safe  retreat  I  will  send  for  him 
tomorrow.'  He  then  departed,  and  colonel 
Abthorpe  being  now  at  liberty,  turned  his 
thoughts  towards  the  wounded  soldier. 

Fie  had  fainted;  a  mattress  was  laid  on 
the  floor,  and  as  they  all  united  in  endeav- 
oring to  lift  him  upon  it,  the  motion  increased 
the  anguish  of  his  wounds,  and  recalled  his 
languid  senses. 

'Oh,  spare  me!  do  not  kill  me!'  said  he, 
looking  round  with  a  terrified  aspect. 

'Be  comforted,'  said  the  colonel;  'you 
are  among  friends,  who  will  do  all  in  their 
power  to  save  your  life.' 

'God  will  reward  you,'  said  he,  faintly. 

They  now  examined  the  wound, and  found, 
from  its  depth  and  situation,  that  a  few  hours 
would  terminate  the  existence  of  the  poor 
sufferer:  however  they  made  long  bandages 
of  linen,  and  with  pledgets  clipped  in  spirits, 
endeavored  to  stanch  the  bleeding,  but  in 
vain. 

'I  am  very  faint,' said  he. 

Rebecca  knelt  and  supported  him  in  her 
arms,  assisted  by  the  weeping  Sophia. 

'  Can  I  live,  think  you,  sir  ?'  said  he,  look- 
ing in  the  colonel's  face. 


168  REBECCA. 

'1  fear  not,'  was  the  reply. 

1  God's  will  be  done,'  said  he,  '  but  1  have 
a  long  account  to  settle,  and  but  a  short  time 
to  do  it  in.  Dear  good  Christians,  pray 
with  me — pray  for  me.  Alas,  it  is  dreadful 
to  die,  and  with  the  weight  of  murder  on 
my  conscience.'  Here  he  grew  faint  again, 
and  ceased  to  speak.  A  cordial  was  admin- 
istered— he  revived. 

1  You  see  before  you,  my  friends.1  said  he, 
'a  most  unhappy  man,  the  victim  of  his  own 
folly.  My  father  is  a  clergyman  in  the 
north  of  England;  1  am  his  only  child,  and 
have  received  from  him  an  education  suit- 
able to  the  station  in  which  he  meant  to 
have  placed  me,  which  was  the  church;  but, 
alas,  I  despised  his  precepts,  and  joined  my- 
self to  a  set  of  the  most  dissolute  compan- 
ions, with  whom  I  ran  into  exery  species  of 
vice  and  debauchery.  By  repeated  extrav- 
agance 1  involved  my  poor  father,  who,  no 
longer  able  to  supply  my  cxhorbitant  de- 
mands, remonstrated  against  my  way  of 
life;  but  I  was  too  much  attached  to  vice  to 
resolve  to  quit  it,  and  in  a  fit  of  desperation, 
having  lost  more  money  than  I  could  pay, 
1  enlisted  in  a  regiment  bound  to  this  place. 
Ah,  sir,  I  have  reason  to  think  my  conduct 
shortened  my  dear  mother's  existence,  and 
1  have  embittered  the  last  hours  of  a  father, 
whom  it  was  my  duty  to  comfort  and  sup- 
port.    These  are  heavy  clogs  upon  my  de- 


REBECCA.  169 

parting  soul,  but  he  who  witnesseth  the  sin- 
cerity of  my  repentance,  I  trust  will  com- 
passionate and  pardon  me.' 

'No  doubt  of  it,'  cried  Rebecca,  whose 
heart  was  almost  bursting  as  she  listened  to 
the  expiring  penitent. 

He  looked  round,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on 
Rebecca  and  Sophia,  'poor  girls,'  said  he, 
'you  are  but  young,  take  the  advice  of  a 
dying  sinner,  and  treasure  it  in  your  memo- 
ries ;  obey  your  parents,  never  forsake  them, 
and  shun  vicious  company,  for  had  I  done 
this  it  would  have  been  well  for  me  in  this 
evil  day.' 

Rebecca's  susceptible  heart  smote  her, 
she  hid  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  and 
sighed  deeply. 

'God  forever  bless  you,  my  friends  !' said 
he,  '  1  am  going,  a  few  pangs  more,  and  all 
will  be  over.  Oh,  may  he,  whose  fatal  aim 
took  my  life,  have  it  not  remembered  against 
him  ;  may  the  Father  of  mercy  forgive  him 
as  freely  as  I  do.' 

He  then  commenced  the  Lord's  prayer, 
but  expired  before  he  could  finish  it. 

'  Peace  to  his  repentant  spirit,'  said  the 
colonel,  as  he  raised  his  weeping  daughter 
from  he"r  knees. 

'His  poor  father,'  said  she,  'what  would 
he  feel  did  he  know  this.' 

'  He  felt  more,'  replied  the  colonel, '  when 
the  misguided  youth  forsook  the  paths  of 
15    - 


1 10  REBECCA. 

virtue,  than  he  would,  could  he  even  behold 
him  now.' 

The  heat  at  this  season  of  the  year  is  in* 
tense,  and  the  colonel  knew  the  body  of  the 
unhappy  soldier  must  that  day  be  consigned 
to  the  earth,  yet  how  to  make  the  grave,  or 
how  to  convey  the  corpse  to  it  when  mude, 
were  difficulties  which  he  could  hardly  think 
it  possible  to  surmount,  but  sad  necessity 
enforced  the  attempt;  he  fixed  on  a  retired 
spot,  just  by  the  side  of  his  garden,  and  be- 
gan the  melancholy  task.  Rebecca  and 
Sophia  with  their  delicate  hands  endeavor- 
ed to  assist,  and  by  evening  they  had  com- 
pleted it. 

The  faint  rays  of  the  setting  sun  just 
tinged  the  summit  of  the  highest  hill;  the 
sky  was  serene,  and  scarce  a  breeze  was 
heard  to  move  the  leaves  or  ruffle  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  water.  Awfully  impressive 
was  the  silence  that  reigned  through  this 
once  cheerful  village. 

As  the  colonel  sat  pensively  considering 
his  situation,  and  thinking  how  in  the  de- 
centest  manner  possible  he  could  render  the 
last  sad  duties  to  the  deceased,  he  saw  a 
small  fishing-boat,  with  one  man  in  it,  draw- 
ing near  the  shore;  he  ran  hastily  down, 
entreated  him  to  land  and  assist  him  in  his 
mournful  office. 

The  body  was  carefully  wrapped  in  a 
sheet — it  was   impossible  to  obtain  a  coffin\ 


REBECCA.  171 

'We  have  no  clergyman,' said  the  colonel, 
1  but  the  prayers  of  innocence  shall  conse- 
crate his  grave.' 

He  gave  the  prayer-book  to  Sophia,  she 
opened  it,  and  with  her  mother  and  Rebec- 
ca followed  the  body.  She  began  the  ser- 
vice but  her  voice  faltered,  the  tears  burst 
forth,  she  sobbed,  and  could  no  longer  ar- 
ticulate. The  colonel  took  it  from  her;  he 
was  a  man  of  undaunted  courage  in  the  day 
of  battle,  but  here  even  his  heart  sunk,  and 
his  voice  was  tremulous;  but  he  recalled 
his  fortitude  and  finished  the  solemn  rite  in 
a  becoming  manner. 

'-What  a  day  this  has  been,'  said  Sophia, 
as  they  were  partaking  a  little  refreshment. 

'It  has  been  a  heavy  day  indeed,  my 
child,'  said  Mrs  Abthorpe,  'but  how  much 
heavier  would  it  have  been,  had  the  poor 
departed  been  related  to  us  by  any  ties  of 
blood:  had  he  been  a  father,  a  husband,  or 
a  brother.  Think  not  of  the  evils  we  en- 
dure, my  dear  Sophia,  but  reflect  how  much 
more  painful  our  situation  might  be  than  it 
is,  and  offer  up  your  thanks  to  your  Crea- 
tor, that  our  afflictions  do  not  exceed  our 
strength,  and  that  in  this  solitary  place  we 
enjoy  health  and  serenity  of  mind.' 

'Ah,' said  Rebecca,  mentally,  'I  do  not 
enjoy  that  serenity,  for  my  mother  in  afflic- 
tion, in  want,  and  calling  in  vain  upon  her 


172  REBECCA. 

daughter  for  comfort,  is  ever  present  to  my 
imagination.' 

For  several  weeks  the  solitude  of  colonel 
Abthorpe  was  undisturbed,  and  autumn  be- 
gan to  advance.  He  dreaded  the  approach 
of  winter,  as  he  knew  in  that  inclement  sea- 
son they  would  feel  the  want  of  many  com- 
forts they  had  been  accustomed  to  enjoy  ; 
and  shut  out  from  all  society,  how  should 
they  procure  sustenance  ?  These  reflections 
made  him  extremely  unhappy.  He  would 
gladly  have  gone  to  the  British  troops,  but 
had  no  possible  means  of  conveying  himself 
and  family  to  them,  and  his  heart  revolted 
from  the  thought  of  going  to  reside  with  the 
enemies  of  his  sovereign  ;  however  they  gave 
him  not  the  choice,  for  the  latter  end  of  Oc- 
tober they  despatched  a  party,  consisting  of 
a  captain,  lieutenant,  and  fifty  men,  who  sur- 
rounded the  house  of  the  defenceless  colonel, 
making  himself,  his  wife,  daughter,  and  our 
heroine  prisoners,  on  pretence  of  his  having 
held  correspondence  with  the  enemy. 

Mrs  Abthorpe  was  a  woman  of  a  delicate, 
constitution.  This  sad  reverse  of  fortune 
was  more  than  she  could  well  support ;  a 
slow  nervous  fever  preyed  upon  her  frame  ; 
nor  could  the  united  efforts  of  her  husband, 
Sophia,  and  Rebecca,  arouse  her  from  the 
state  of  torpor  and  inaction  into  which  she 
had  fallen,  cooped  up  in  one  single  roon: 
(for  though  prisoners  they   had  the   liberty 


m 


REBECCA.  173 

of  walking  about  the  place  to  which  they 
had  been  conveyed)  obliged  to  perform  the 
most  menial  offices  for  themselves,  with 
scarcely  the  necessaries,  and  none  of  the 
comforts  of  life,  except  what  was  supplied 
by  a  few  benevolent  families,  who  were 
friends  to  the  government.  It  may  easily  be 
supposed  colonel  Abthorpe  and  his  family 
acutely  felt  their  painful  situation,  yet  he 
endeavored  to  support  himself  with  a  be- 
coming fortitude.  Rebecca  and  her  young 
lady,  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  learned 
to  manage  their  wheels,  which  they  plied 
with  diligence  and  dexterity,  sometimes  they 
spun  cotton,  sometimes  wool  or  flax,  rising 
with  the  lark,  and  continuing  their  labors 
with  unremitting  industry,  till  the  shades  of 
night  prevented  their  pursuing  it.  They 
would  then,  as  the  progress  of  the  spring  in- 
vited thern,  wander  out  to  a  neighboring 
wood,  the  borders  of  which  were  washed  by 
a  narrow  arm  of  the  sea ;  they  would  sit  up- 
on its  banks,  watching  the  unstable  element 
as  it  ebbed  or  flowed,  admiring  the  rich  beau- 
ties of  the  surrounding  prospect.  Their 
hearts  were  innocent,  youth,  health,  and  ex- 
ercise gave  them  a  flow  of  spirits,  and  often 
as  they  >sat  would  they  warble  some  cheer- 
ful air,  or  in  an  evening  hymn  of  thanksgiv- 
ing, lift  up  their  souls  to  their  Creator. 

But  when  the  summer  was  past,  and  win- 
ter in  its  dread  array  drew  near,  when  the 
15* 


174  REBECCA. 

pinching  blasts  of  December  pierced  bleak- 
ly through  the  crevices  of  their  miserable 
habitation,  and  there  was  neither  fire  or 
necessary  food  to  alleviate  the  horrors  in- 
spired by  the  gloominess  of  the  season,  then 
it  was  their  spirits  began  to  flag.  Sophia 
would  gaze  ardently  at  her  mother,  on  whose 
pale  countenance  sickness  and  sorrow  sat 
triumphant,  and  while,  with  a  faint  smile  of 
tender  affection,  she  endeavored  to  cheer 
her,  the  starting  tear  wpuld  discover  the  de- 
spondency of  her  own  heart. 

It  was  a  cold  evening,  the  snow  fell  fast. 
a  very  small  portion  of  fire  glowed  on  the 
hearth,  and  the  little  light  in  their  apartment 
proceeded  from  a  small  lamp  that  was  placed 
on  a  deal  table;  beside  which  sat  colonel 
Abthorpe,  his  head  rested  on  his  hand,  his 
eyes  fixed  in  mournful  contemplation  on  the 
altered  face  of  his  beloved  wife,  who,  seated 
opposite  to  him,  was  diligently  employed  in 
knitting,  while  Rebecca  and  Sophia  were 
spinning,  in  hopes,  by  the  produce  of  their 
labors  to  increase  the  small,  very  small 
share  of  comforts  they  enjoyed. 

'  It  is  very  cold  tonight,'  said  the  colonel, 
casting  a  melancholy  look  at  the  fire. 

'  I  have  felt  it  colder,'  replied  his  lady,  en- 
deavoring at  a  smile;  'besides  the  room  is 
small,  and  a  little  fire  warms  it.' 

'To  be  sure,'  cried  Sophia,  'and  then, 
^vhile  I  am  at  work  I  never  think  of  the  cold  : 


REBECCA.  1 75 

but  1  am  afraid  of  Rebecca  ;  she  is  more 
delicate  then  1  am.' 

'Your  fears  are  needless,  my  love,'  re- 
plied our  heroine.  'I  should  not  mind  the 
inclemency  of  the  season,  was  your  dear  mo- 
ther only  comfortable.' 

'We  think  our  situation  hard,'  said  Mrs 
Abthorpe,  '  what  then  is  the  situation  of  the 
poor  soldiers  ehgaged  in  the  war.' 

'Poor  fellows,' said  the  colonel,  passing 
his  hand  across  his  forehead,  to  conceal  the 
rheum  that  distilled'from  his  eyes. 

At  (hat  moment  the  door  of  their  apart- 
ment opened,  and  a  stranger  entered  with- 
out ceremony. 

The  colonel  arose,  Mrs  Abthorpe  bowed 
her  head  in  token  of  salutation,  and  the 
young  ladies  suspended  their  work. 

The  stranger  drew  a  chair.  '  You  do  not 
seem  to  be  comfortably  situated,  colonel,' 
said  he,  as  he  seated  himself,  and  cast  his 
eyes  round  the  room. 

'No,'  replied  the  colonel,  with  a  deep 
drawn  sigh,  'comfort  and  1  have  long  been 
strangers  to  each  other.' 

'Mrs  Abthorpe  looks  ill,'  said  the  stran- 
ger; '  has  she  had  any  advice?1 

'The  humanity  of  some  friends,  sir,  have 
procured  her  every  medical  assistance;  but, 
alas!  in  vain — the  malady  is  seated  in  her 
mind.' 

'  I  was  inquiring  about  you  the  other  day," 


1 76  REBECCA. 

said  the  stranger,  'and  was  sorry  to  hear 
you  were  so  badly  supplied  with  the  neces- 
saries of  life  A  plan  has  since  struck  me 
by  which  you  may  be  relieved  from  your 
present  distresses,  and  restored  to  the  ease 
and  affluence  you  have  been  heretofore  ac- 
customed to  enjoy.' 

This  was  at  once  calling  forth  the  atten- 
tion of  his  auditors.  Mrs  Abthorpe  raised 
her  languid  eyes  to  his  face,  Sophia  and  Re- 
becca instinctively  drew  near,  the  colonel 
listened  in  silence,  and  the  stranger  pro- 
ceeded. 

'Our  army  at  present  is  in  want  of  expe- 
rienced officers:  you  do  not  hold  any  com- 
mission under  the  king  of  England.' 

'But  I  have  eat  his  bread,  sir,'  said  the 
colonel,  hastily. 

Mrs  Abthorpe  sighed,  and  relapsed  into 
her  accustomed  pensive  state. 

'If  you  would  accept  a  commission  in  our 
army,'  said  the  stranger,  'your  property 
would  be  again  restored,  and  ample  com- 
pensation made  for  the  losses  you  have  sus- 
tained.' 

The  colonel  shook  his  head,  and  made  a 
rejecting  motion  with  his  hand. 

'  You  will  be  raised  to  a  rank  superior  to 
any  you  have  held  in  the  British  army,  and 
your  name  will  be  immortalized  as  one  of 
the  glorious  supporters  of  American  liberty.' 


REBECCA.  177 

The  colonel  frowned  and  was  going  to 
speak,  but  the  stranger  interrupted  him: 

'  You  will  have  the  felicity  of  seeing  your 
amiable  wife  and  lovely  daughter  enjoying 
again  the  elegancies  of  life.  Pleasure  will 
once  more  inhabit  their  bosoms,  and  enliven 
their  features.' 

The  colonel  gazed  tenderly  on  his  wife 
and  daughter,  paused,  and  seemed  irreso- 
lute.    IVlrs  Abthorpe  read  his  heart. 

'  And  what,'  said  she,  addressing  the  stran- 
ger, 'are  the  elegancies  of  life,  when  the 
mind  no  longer  retains  its  own  approbation ! 
It  is  true,  sir,  the  present  change  in  our  cir- 
cumstances has  awakened  some  painful  sen- 
sations; but  it  has  not  made  us  unhappy.  I 
do  not  repine,  for,  though  unfortunate,  we 
are  not  despicable ;  our  integrity  has  ever 
been  unshaken,  and,  1  trust,  will  ever  re- 
main so.' 

'True,  my  love,'  said  the  colonel,  recol- 
lecting himself,  'we  will  bear  the  present 
evils  patiently,  and  hope  for  better  days  in 
future.' 

'  But  I  would  have  you  weigh  this  matter 
maturely,  colonel,'  said  the  stranger,  '  before 
you  pretend  to  decide.' 

'I  have  weighed  it,  sir,  you  will  pardon 
my  abruptness,  and  am  determined  to  reject 
every  offer  that  would  tend  to  draw  me  from 
the  loyalty  I  owe  the  best  of  sovereigns: — 


178  REBECCA 

and,   allow  rae  to  say,  I  consider  such  offers 
as  insults  to  my  honor.' 

•It  is  well,  sir,' said  the  stranger,  rising, 
'if  your  resolution  is  taken,  1  will  say  no 
more  on  the  subject;  but  you  will  please  to 
prepare  your  family  for  leaving  this  place 
tomorrow.  You  are  to  be  conveyed  twen- 
ty miles  further  into  the  country.' 

'  Further  into  the  country,  sir!' said  the 
colonel,  starting,  '  my  wife  is  unable  to  bear 
the  journey.' 

Sophia  turned  deathly  pale,  and  left  the 
room  with  Rebecca. 

kDo  not  he  uneasy,  my  dear  Abthorpe,' 
said  the  amiable  wife  ; '  I  make  no  doubt  but 
He.  who,  for  his  own  wise  purposes,  suffers 
us  thus  to  be  afflicted,  will  endue  me  with 
strength  of  mind  and  body  to  bear  it  as  be- 
comes a  Christian.' 

The  stranger  walked  across  the  room. — 
He  was  a  man  of  feeling,  and  had  very  un- 
willingly undertaken  this  commission.  He 
was  possessed  of  every  virtue  that  could  el- 
evate the  human  heart.  He  had  been  taught 
to  think  the  cause,  in  which  he  was  engaged, 
was  a  right  cause.  He  was  young;  his  bo- 
som glowed  with  enthusiastic  ardor.  Can 
we  blame  him?  for,  though  attached  to  the 
cause  of  his  country,  he  was  still  more  so 
to  that  of  humanity. 

'  I   am  sorry — '  said  he  ;  but  a  disagree- 


REBECCA.  179 

able   oppression  upon  the  lungs  prevented 
his  proceeding  further. 

The  colonel  involuntarily  took  him  by  the 
hand — ;  And  had  you,  my  dear  sir,  been 
tempted  to  desert  your  country's  cause — 
what  says  your  heart?  Would  private  inter- 
est have  triumphed  over  the  spirit  of  patri- 
otism that  animates  your  bosom  ?' 

'I  have  no  wife  and  child,'  said  he.  The 
feelings  of  sensibility  could  no  longer  be  re- 
strained, but  rushed  impetuous  from  his  eyes, 
and,  though  he  was  a  man  of  undoubted  val- 
or, he  did  not  blush  to  indulge  them.  'Let 
those  blush,'  said  he,  mentally, '  who  cannot 
sympathize  with  an  afflicted  fellow-creature.' 

'But  suppose,'  said  Mrs  Abthorpe,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm  (for  he  had  mechanic- 
ally stopped  beside  her)  'suppose,  sir,  you 
had  a  wife  who  would  feel  more  for  your  de- 
viation from  rectitude,  than  she  would  to  en- 
dure the  hardest  pangs  of  poverty  and  sick- 
ness, and  who  would  rather  die  than  see  you 
an  apostate  to  the  cause  you  had  vowed  for 
ever  to  espouse?' 

He  turned  abruptly  from  her;  something 
that  spoke  within  forbade  him  to  answer. 

'And  what  have  I  done,' said  the  colonel, 
'  that  I  must  leave  a  place  where  I  have  ex- 
perienced such  friendship — such  disinterest- 
ed affection  from  many  of  the  inhabitants?' 

'  You  are  too  near  the  sea-coast,'  said  the 


ISO  REBECCA 

stranger,  •  and  may  hold  correspondence 
with  the  enemy.' 

He  averted  his  eye  from  the  colonel's 
face,  and  pretended  to  consult  his  watch. — 
'It  is  later  than  1  thought,'  said  he,  endeav- 
oring at  indifference  in  his  voice  and  manner. 

'At  eight  o'clock  tomorrow  I  expect  you 
will  be  removed.  God  bless  you,  my  dear 
madam  !'  respectfully  taking  Mrs  Abthorpe's 
hand. 

She  saw  the  feelings  of  his  soul  depicted 
in  his  face,  and  forbore  to  increase  them  by 
unnecessary  complaint. 

'The  change  of  air  may  do  mc  good,  sir,' 
said  she,  with  a  smile  of  complacency  ;  'for 
it  often  happens  that  what  we  dread  as  an 
evil,  in  the  end  contributes  to  our  advantage.' 

He  gazed  on  her  with  a  look  of  reverence 
and  wonder,  bowed  profoundly,  and,  unable 
to  articulate  another  sentence,  hastily  left 
the  room. 


GPIAPTER  XI. 

'  And  must  we  leave  this  place,  my  dear 
father  ?'  said  Sophia,  coming  from  a  small 
adjoining  apartment,  whither  she  had  re- 
tired to  indulge  the  tears  she  was  no  longer 
able    to   restrain :    '  must  we   be   separate!! 


REBECCA.  1  8 ! 

irom  those  friends  whose  generous  attentions 
have  lightened  all  our  afflictions?' 

'We  must,  Sophia,'  said  her  father,  rath- 
er sternly,  'tomorrow  morning.' 

'Ah!  me,'  said  the  weeping  girl,  turning 
to  Rebecca,  and  resting  her  head  on  her 
shoulder. 

'  Do  not  grieve  thus,  my  dear  Sophia,' 
said  our  heroine;  'for,  though  separated 
from  your  friends,  you  will  still  live  in  their 
remembrance,  and  they  in  yours? 

'  Yes,T  cried  Sophia,  with  a  look  of  grate- 
ful rapture,  'ever  while  the  vital  tide  nour- 
ishes my  heart;  dear,  worthy  inhabitants 
of  Hingham,  when  I  forget  the  friendship 
that  alleviated  my  parents'  sorrows  may 
that  heart  cease  to  beat!' 

The  next  morning,  just  as  the  gray  dawn 
began  to  enliven  the  east,  Mr  Abthorpe's 
family  were  called  to  begin  their  journey. 
An  open  chaise,  drawn  by  a  miserable  horse, 
was  all  the  conveyance  provided  for  Mrs 
Abthorpe,  Sophia  and  Rebecca;  the  colonel 
himself  was  expected  to  walk.  About  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  they  set  out,  but  the 
roads  were  so  heavy,  and  the  horse  so  old 
and  lame,  that  though  they  had  only  a  jour- 
ney ofvfiftecn  miles  to  make,  they  had  not 
completed  it  at  four  in  the  afternoon.  The 
darkness  of  the  night  began  to  envelope  ev- 
ery object,  when  the  chaise  stopped  at  a  hut 
(hat  could  scarcely  be  called  habitable.  Re- 
16 


182  REBECCA. 

becca  and  Sophia  assisted  Mrs  Abthorpc  to 
alight;  gloomy  as  was  the  outward  appear- 
ance of  their  destined  habitation,  the  inside 
served  only  to  increase  their  horror;  it  con- 
sisted of  three  rooms,  the  windows  had  once 
been  glazed,  but  were  now  some  parts  open, 
and  others  mended  with  wood.  One  room 
indeed,  was  boarded,  the  others  had  only 
the  ground  for  a  floor.  There  were  two 
chimnies  large  and  dreary,  in  which  no 
trace  of  fire  appeared  ;  all  was  desolate  and 
gloomy. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  the  colonel  had  not 
.yet  arrived.  Rebecca  and  Sophia  felt  round 
the  damp  solitary  rooms  for  something  on 
which  Mrs  Abthorpe  might  sit  down,  for  she 
was  faint  and  weary  from  taking  no  refresh- 
ment during  their  tedious  journey,  and  hav- 
ing been  exposed  to  the  intense  cold  so  ma- 
ny hours;  but  their  search  was  in  vain,  no 
seat  could  be  found  ;  they  took  off  their  own 
cloaks,  and  laid  them  on  the  floor:  on  these 
she  sunk,  weak  and  exhausted,  and  in  spite 
of  her  accustomed  fortitude,  suffering  nature 
wrung  from  her  a  few  complaints.  Rebec- 
ca and  Sophia  knelt  beside  and  supported 
her — the  voice  of  comfort  no  longer  issued 
from  their  lips — their  sighs  responsive  an- 
swered hers — their  tears  mingled  as  they 
fell — but  all  remained  silent. 

They  heard  footsteps  approach — the  col- 
onel's well  know  voice  saluted  their  ears. 


REBECCA.  183 

'  Dry  your  eyes,  my  dear  girls,'  said  Mrs 
Abihorpe  ;  '  Let  us  not  increase  his  sorrows, 
whose  every  pang  is  doubled  by  our  suf- 
ferings.' 

The  colonel  entered — some  one  accompa- 
nied him,  for  they  could  hear  more  than  one 
footstep. 

'  We  shall  have  a  fire  soon,'  said  the  col- 
onel ;  '  it  is  a  very  cold  evening.' 

'  But  1  am  well  wrapped  up,  and  do  not 
feel  it,'  said  Mrs  Abthorpe. 

His  heart  thanked  her,  though  it  refused 
to  believe  her  assertion. 

Just  then  a  third  person  entered,  and 
threw  down  an  armful  of  wood,  when  the 
person  who  had  accompanied  the  colonel, 
produced  a  tinder-box,  and  striking  a  light, 
discovered  to  the  astonished  females  the 
sons  of  two  of  their  best  friends. 

Mr  Lane!  Mr  Barker]  involuntarily  burst 
from  all  their  lips;  but  the  generous  young 
men  would  not  hear  a  word  of  praise  or 
thanks;  they  soon  cheered  the  solitary  man- 
sion with  a  comfortable  fire;  in  the  mean 
time  a  small  cart  arrived  with  two  beds,  a 
few  chairs,  and  some  kitchen  utensils.  From 
a  basket  in  this  cart  the  young  men  produced 
a  coufiie  of  fowls,  some  butter,  bread,  and 
two  bottles  of  wine,  so  that  in  less  than  two 
hours,  from  their  first  melancholy  entrance, 
our  distressed  family  were  sitting  in  homely 
wise  round  an  old  wainscot-table,  before  a 


134  REBECCA 

large  fire,  partaking  a  plentiful  supper,  v\  hile 
their  hearts  expanded  with  gratitude  to  that 
good  Providence  who  had  thus  raised  them 
up  friends  when  least  expected. 

The  next  morning  the  young  men  exerted 
themselves  to  repair  the  breaches  in  the  win- 
dows, and  to  stop  the  large  crevices  in  the 
doors  of  the  house.  Having  to  the  utmost 
of  their  power  lessened  their  troubles,  and 
rendered  them  tolerably  comfortable,  they 
departed,  leaving  behind  them  some  meat, 
bread,  butter,  cheese,  and  a  small  parcel  of 
tea  and  sugar;  but  as  the  last  named  articles 
were  at  that  time  extremely  scarce  they 
could  not  be  so  liberal  as  their  expanded 
hearts  led  them  to  wish. 

Oh  !  with  what  rapture  must  the  parents 
of  these  young  men  have  received  them  af- 
ter such  a  journey,  to  which  they  had  been 
excited  by  motives  of  the  purest  benevo- 
lence; but  benevolence  was  their  charac- 
teristics. 

Blest  spirits  of  philanthropy,  the  hearts 
of  whom,  ere  discord  shook  her  baneful 
wings,  and  shed  her  influence  over  your  hap- 
py plains,  in  a  stale  of  almost  primeval  in- 
nocence, felt  not  a  pang,  but  for  another's 
woe,  and  whose  first  pleasure  was  to  allevi- 
ate the  sorrows  of  a  suffering  fellow-crea- 
ture !  May  the  arrows  of  affliction,  with 
which  she  has  since  wounded  you,  be  drawn 
forth  by  the  hand   of  sympathizing   friend- 


REBECCA.  185 

ship,  and  the  anguish  of  them  obliterated  by 
the   remembrance   of  your  own  good  deeds. 

But  this  is  a  theme  which  carries  me  from 
every  other.  I  would  request  pardon  for 
digressing  from  my  subject,  but  I  know 
those  only  will  blame  me,  who  never  felt  the 
sweet  emotions  of  unbounded  gratitude. 

But  to  return — 

The  habitation,  to  which  colonel  Abthorpe 
had  been  thus  suddenly  removed,  was  situ- 
ated on  the  skirts  of  an  extensive  wood.  The 
face  of  the  country  was  rocky  and  dreary, 
(o  which  unpromising  appearance  the  snow 
and  ice  not  a  little  contributed.  There  was 
but  one  habitation  within  two  miles  of  them, 
and  that  was  occupied  by  people,  if  possible, 
more  wretched  than  themselves. 

In  this  dismal  situation,  with  no  amuse- 
ment, but  what  sprang  from  themselves,  for 
they  had  not  even  the  consolation  of  books, 
did  the  colonel  and  his  family  pass  four 
wearisome  months,  during  which  time  they 
had  often  no  food  but  coarse  Indian  bread 
and  potatoes;  nor  any  firing  but  what  So- 
phia and  Rebecca  assisted  each  other  to 
bring  in  their  delicate  arms  from  the  adja- 
cent woods,  for  the  colonel  himself  was  a 
great  part  of  that  time  confined  to  the  house 
with  the  gout,  and  in  their  daily  excursion 
to  procure  this  necessary  appendage  to  the 
support  of  life  in  so  cold  a  climate,  they  had 
no  covering  to  their  feet,  which  often  bled 
16* 


J  06  UEBECCA 

from  the  inlenseness  of  the  cold,  or  from  in- 
cisions made  by  the  rugged  path  over  which 
they  were  obliged  to  pass. 

It  was  the  latter  end  of  March,  the  ice 
was  beginning  to  dissolve  in  the  wrarmth  of 
a  mid-day  sun,  when  Rebecca,  willing  to 
enjoy  a  short  space  of  uninterrupted  reflec- 
tion, sallied  into  the  woods,  unaccompanied 
by  Miss  Abthorpc.  As  she  gathered  up 
some  scattered  branches,  and  laid  them  to- 
gether, her  thoughts  wandered  to  her  native 
land.  She  retraced  every  event  of  her  past 
life.  '  And  where  now  is  sir  George?'  said 
she.  'Could  he  behold  me  at  this  instant, 
how  would  his  generous  heart  compassionate 
my  misfortunes  ;  but,  alas  !  perhaps  1  am  no 
more  remembered  by  him,  or  he  considers 
me  as  numbered  w  ith  the  dead  ;  and  am  1  not 
so  to  him  ?  Then,  why  should  1  wish  him  to 
retain  me  in  his  mind,  when,  by  forgetting 
me,  he  may  regain  that  felicity  his  generous 
sentiments  in  my  favor  had  interrupted.  No 
doubt,  he  is  long  since  married  to  the  lady 
with  whom  his  mother  wished  him  to  unite. 
Ah!  my  beloved  benefactress,'  continued 
she,  sitting  down  on  a  large  stone  at  the  foot 
of  a  spreading  pine,  'dear  lady  Mary,  little 
did  you  think  when  I  parted  from  you  we 
were  never  more  to  meet!  but  that  anguish 
of  heart  would  from  that  hour  be  the  unre- 
mitting portion  of  your  Rebecca.' 

She  then  drew   forth  the  picture  which, 


REBECCA.  187 

through  all  her  distress,  she  had  still  care- 
fully preserved,  and  constantly  carried  in  a 
small  purse,  in  which  she  had  also  deposited 
sir  George's  letter,  and  those  she  had  re- 
ceived from  her  mother.  As  she  opened 
this  precious  repository,  her  mother's  writ- 
ing caught  her  eye. 

'  My  poor  mother,'  said  she,  '  what  waves, 
what  insurmountable  waves,  now  roll  be- 
tween us!  shall  I  ever,  again  behold  you? 
or  is  it  my  fate  here,  far  distant  from  my 
native  land,  to  end  an  existence,  which  tho' 
short,  has  been  marked  by  variety  of  sor- 
row?' Here  painful  remembrance  overpow- 
ered her.  She  rested  her  cheek  on  her 
hand,  and  as  she  held  the  picture  in  the  oth- 
er, alternately  raising  her  streaming  eyes 
to  heaven,  and  then  fixing  them  on  the  por- 
trait of  sir  George. 

She  was  aroused  from  this  painful  revery 
by  a  deep  drawn  sigh  which  seemed  to  pro- 
ceed from  a  person  very  near  her,  and,  start- 
ing, saw  a  venerable  old  man  standing  op- 
posite her,  habited  in  a  lieutenants  dirty 
uniform. 

She  arose,  and  tying  her  bundle  of  wood 
together.,  was  preparing  to  lift  it,  when  the 
old  officer  approached. 

'It  is  too  heavy  for  you,  child,'  said  he, 
'give  me  leave  to  carry  it.' 

'  1  have  not  far  to  go,  sir,'  said  she. 

'Perhaps  you  are  going  to  the  unfortun- 


188  REBECCA. 

ate  colonel  Abthorpe's  habitation,  or  can  di- 
rect me  where  to  find  it?' 

1 1  live  in  his  family,'  said  Rebecca,  eager- 
ly, 'do  you  know  him,  sir?' 

'  Alas!  no,  my  dear  child;  but  hearing  he 
was  a  prisoner  at  this  place,  and  being  my- 
self in  the  same  unhappy  predicament,  1  am 
going  to  claim  his  society,  hoping  that,  as 
brothers  in  affliction,  we  may  be  enabled  to 
comfort  each  other :  but,  surely,  1  have  seen 
you  before,  though  where  or  when  I  can  by 
no  means  recollect.1 

'Your  features  too,'  said  Rebecca,  'seem 
familiar  to  me,  yet  1  do  not  think  we  ever 
met  before.' 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and 
depositing  their  burthen  at  the  door,  entered. 

'You  will  pardon  me,  sir,' said  the  old 
lieutenant,  advancing  to  the  colonel,  'if  un- 
asked, 1  intrude  myself  inlo  your  dwelling  ; 
but  hearing  there  was  an  officer  in  this  place, 
J  could  not  resist  the  desire  1  felt  to  become 
known  to  him.' 

'And  by  what  name  am  1  to  know,  and 
thank  you  for  this  civility  ?'  said  the  colonel, 
placing  a  chair  for  his  guest. 

'My  name  is  Littleton.' 

'Littleton!1  cried  Rebecca,  stepping  ea- 
gerly forward. 

'Yes;  George  Littleton.'  said  the  lieuten- 
ant. '  And  I  have  worn  his  majesty's  livery 
above  twenty  years.' 


REBECCA.  189 

;  My  name  is  Littleton,'  said  Rebecca. 

:  And  your  father's  name  V 

'Was  William.' 

1  He  is  dead  then,'  said  Mr  Littleton,  with 
a  disappointed  look. 

Rebecca's  tears  confirmed  the  suspicion. 

'And  did  you  never  hear  him  speak  of  a 
brother?' 

'  Yes;  but  as  one  long  since  dead.' 

'Alas!  he  thought  me  dead,  but  1  am  that 
brother-,  nor  can  I  doubt  but  you  are  his 
child,  you  bear  so  strong  a  resemblance  to 
him.  My  dear  girl,'  continued  he,  embrac- 
ing her,  k  how  my  heart  bleeds  to  meet  you 
here,  and  so  badly  sheltered  from  the  in- 
clemency of  the  season.' 

A  few  moments  were  now  devoted  to  mu- 
tual gralulations  and  mutual  condolence. — 
When  the  first  tumult  was  a  little  subsided, 
Rebecca  wished  to  be  informed  how  it  hap- 
pened that  her  uncle  had  been  so  long  sup- 
posed dead  by  her  father.' 

'  Disappointment  and  vexation,'  said  the 
old  gentleman,  'drove  me  from  my  native 
country;  the  loss  of  a  wife  and  child,  whom 
]  tenderly  loved,  disgusted  me  with  life,  and 
J  shipped  myself  to  the  East-Indies,  whence 
I  hoped'never  to  return. 

'  1  am  several  years  younger  than  was 
your  father,  and  was  placed  by  an  old  uncle 
with   a   wealthy   merchant,   with   whom   he 


1 90  REBECCA. 

promised  to  establish  me,  when  I  had  served 
my  clerkship  with  honor. 

'My  master  had  an  only  child;  she  was 
not  what  is  usually  called1^  beauty,  but  she 
was  in  my  eyes  more.  Her  features  were 
regular;  the  gentleness  of  her  spirit  threw  a 
softness  over  her  countenance,  which  at  once 
prepossessed  every  beholder  in  her  favor. 
Added  to  the  meekness,  and  forgiving  spirit 
of  a  Christian,  she  possessed  all  the  intrepid 
fortitude  and  courage  of  a  Roman  matron. 
The  innocence  of  her  heart  inspired  her 
with  unaffected  cheerfulness,  and  a  most  en- 
gaging vivacity  was  tempered  with  a  mod- 
est simplicity. 

'Such  was  Rosa  Bcn=on  ;  when  at  the  age 
of  eighteen  she  was  sent  for  from  France, 
where  she  had  been  educated,  to  take  the 
care  of  her  father's  house,  her  mother  hav- 
ing been  taken  suddenly  off  by  an  apoplexy. 
I  was  just  two  years  older,  and  could  not  be- 
hold unmoved,  the  innumerable  charms  that 
were  daily  displayed  by  this  engaging  girl. 
She  plaj'ed  upun  the  harpsichord  with  great 
taste  and  execution;  had  a  soft  melodious 
voice,  and  sung  with  judgment.  Her  mind 
had  been  carefully  cultivated,  which  render- 
ed   her  a  well  informed  rational  companion. 

'Mr  Benson  generally  spent  his  evenings 
abroad,  and  ]  frequently  passed  many  hours 
in  uninterrupted  conversation  with  the  de- 
lighting Rosa.     I  will  not  attempt  to  dclinc- 


REBECCA.  191 

ate  the  various  imperceptible  degrees  by 
which  our  hearts  became  attached  to  each 
other;  suffice  it  to  say,  we  felt  the  power  of 
love  mingled  with  the  purest  friendship; — 
nor  did  we  once  reflect  on  the  imprudence 
of  indulging  our  sensibility  till  awakened 
from  our  dream  of  bliss  by  Mr  Benson  in- 
forming his  daughter,  that  her  hand  was  so- 
licited by  an  earl,  and  that  he  had  given 
him  leave  to  address  her;  at  the  same  time 
he  gave  her  to  understand,  he  did  not  expect 
any  opposition  to  his  will,  and  flattered  him- 
self he  should  soon  behold   her  a  countess. 

'When  Miss  Benson  informed  me  of  this 
unhappy  stroke,  1  felt  as  though  annihilated. 
I  threw  myself  at  her  feet,  and  entreated 
her  not  to  make  me  one  of  the  most  wretch- 
ed of  human  beings,  by  accepting  my  noble 
rival.  She  assured  me  she  had  Loo  high  a 
sense  of  honor  to  give  her  hand  to  one  man, 
while  her  heart  was  entirely  devoted  to  an- 
other, but  still  1  was  unhappy:  nor  did  I 
cease  soliciting  the  dear  girl  till  she  consent- 
ed to  be  mine  by  the  strongest  of  all  ties, 
and  by  a  private  marriage  I  secured  to  my- 
self, as  I  then  thought,  the  most  permanent 
felicity. 

^  Still  "the  earl  continued  his  assiduities; 
but  Rosa  found  means  to  evade  her  father's 
earnest  wishes,  and  a  more  wealthy  woman 
falling  in  his  lordship's  way,  who  had  no  ob- 
jection to  making  the  exchange  of  money  for 


192  REBECCA. 

a  title,  she  was,  from  that  moment,  delivered 
from  further  importunity. 

'About  six  months  after  our  marriage,  it 
became  necessary  for  Mr  Benson  to  send  a 
person  to  the  West-Indies,  with  power  to  set- 
tle some  business  with  the  merchants  there; 
it  was  a  lucrative  employment.  He  men- 
tioned to  my  uncle  that  1  might,  if  I  chose, 
undertake  the  voyage.  My  uncle  acqui- 
esced. There  was  no  alternative,  and  I  was 
under  the  necessity  of  leaving  my  wife, 
whom  I  could  by  no  means  persuade  to  ac- 
quaint her  father  with  our  marriage  previous 
to  my  departure. 

'  During  my  absence  I  was  much  surprised 
at  receiving  no  letters  from  my  dear  Rosa  ; 
but  as  I  was  sensible  there  might  be  various 
causes  for  this  apparent  neglect,  il  only  led 
me  to  greater  diligence  in  my  business,  as  I 
knew  the  sooner  it  was  finished,  the  sooner 
1  should  return  to  the  wife  of  my  choice,  the 
friend  of  my  bosom.  At  length  it  was  com- 
pleted, and  I  returned  to  my  native  land,  af- 
ter being  absent  about  thirteen  months. 

'Eagerly  did  1  count  the  minutes  while 
travelling  from  Deal  to  London;  and  when 
the  chaise  slopped  at  Mr  Benson's  door,  my 
heart  throbbed  with  such  violence  that  1 
could  hardly  speak.  I  alighted,  and  ran 
hastily  up  stairs;  but  was  much  surprised, 
on  entering  the  drawing-room,  to  behold  a 
strange   lady  there,  young,  handsome,  and 


REBECCA.  193 

* 

elegantly  dressed.  Mr  Benson  mentioned 
her  as  his  wife. 

'And  where  is-my  Rosa?  said  I.1 

'She  is  not  at  home,'  replied  Mr  Benson, 
coolly  ;  '  but,  come  Littleton,  take  your  tea, 
and  then  we  will  go  into  the  counting-house, 
and  talk  over  business. 

'  Conscious  as  1  was  of  the  near  interest  I 
took  in  every  thing  that  concerned  Rosa,  I 
forbore  to  mention  her  again,  lest  the  agita- 
tion of  my  mind  should  be  betrayed  by  my 
countenance;  1  took  my  tea  in  silence,  and 
then  descended  with  my  master  to  his  count- 
ing-house, where,  in  as  concise  a  manner  as 
possible,  I  gave  him  an  account  of  the  busi- 
ness I  had  been  sent  upon,  and  delivered  to 
him  all  the  bills  and  other  papers  I  had 
brought  with  me  from  Jamaica;  this  em- 
ployed us  till  near  one  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and,  fatigued  as  I  was,  I  could  not  but 
be  surprised  that  my  hitherto  indulgent  mas- 
ter should  have  no  thought  of  the  long  voyage 
and  journey  I  had  just  arrived  from,  and  that 
I  certainly  required  rest. 

'When  we  had  entirely  finished,  he  thus 
addressed  me :' 

'  1  promised  you.  Littleton,  that  this  should 
be  a  lucrative  business  to  you,  there  (open- 
ing a  pocket-book)  there  are  bills  amounting 
to  two  hundred  pounds;  and  now,  sir,  let  me 
tell  you,  that  you  are  a  knave  and  a  villain, 
a  designing,  deceitful  scoundrel,  who,  under 
17 


1$4  REBECCA. 

ihc  ma?k  of  honor  and  probily,  have  robbed 
me  of  my  daughter,  stolen  her  affections,  and 
encouraged   her  in  disobedience.       It   is  to 

your  arts  I  owe  her  refusal  of  the  earl  of , 

and,  had  she  not  been  your  wile,  she  would 
at  this  moment  have  been  a  duchess.' 

'  1  had  sat  as  one  petrified  during  this 
speech  ;  but  on  his  again  calling  me  by  the 
opprobrious  names  already  mentioned,  I  at 
once  roused  myself  and  endeavored  to  an- 
swer; but  his  passion,  like  a  torrent,  bore 
down  all  before  it,  and  I  was  obliged  to  be 
silent.  At  length  he  told  me  he  had  dis- 
claimed his  daughter,  that  he  had  sent  her 
from  his  house,  and  would  never  give  her  a 
single  farthing;  no,  not  even  to  keep  her 
from  starving. 

'  But  go,'  continued  he,  'go  to  her,  and 
may  you  both,  with  your  brat,  starve  to- 
gether.' 

'The  mention  of  a  child  operated  on  my 
nerves  like  a  stroke  of  electricity.  '  And 
where  are  they,  sir,'  said  I,  starting  from 
my  seat,  'where  are  my  Rosa  and  her  in- 
fant?' 

'Somewhere  in  the  country,' said  he,  'but 
I  don't  concern  myself  with  them,  nor  do  1 
ever  wish  to  see  you  or  her  again.  You  have 
disappointed  me  in  my  dearest  hopes,  and  I 
will  seek  consolation  in  the  company  of  an 
amiable  woman,  who  may,    perhaps,   bring 


REDECCA.  1  95 

mc  children,  more  dutiful  than  the  ungrate- 
ful viper  you  have  married.' 

'  He  then  flung  out  of  the  room,  and  I,  too 
much  irritated  to  remain  in  a  house  where  I 
had  been  so  ill  treated,  was  preparing  to 
leave  it,  when  the  door  opened,  and  one  of 
the  housemaids  entered,  looking  carefully 
round  her. 

'1  am  glad  you  are  come,  sir,'  said  she; 
'  my  poor  young  lady  will  rejoice  to  see  you.1 

'  Where  is  she,  Betty?1  said  I. 

'  At  Windsor,1  replied  the  girl,  '  at  my  sis- 
ter's, but  she  has  never  been  well  since  mas- 
ter was  born.1 

'  1  took  a  direciion  from  the  girl,  and  set 
off  as  quick  as  I  could  get  a  chaise. 

'  It  was  between  five  and  six  when  I  ar- 
rived -it  Windsor,  and  having  ordered  some 
breakfast,  though  I  had  no  inclination  to  eat, 
1  sen!  fur  the  woman  with  whom  my  love 
lodged,  and  finding  her  a  discreet  sensible 
person,  intrusted  her  with  a  letter,  to  be  de- 
livered cautiously  to  the  dear  creature,  who 
I  found  was  in  a  very  alarming  state. 

'  In  about  two  hours.  1  was  summoned  to 
the  cottage  that  contained  all  my  treasure; 
but,  good  heaven!  how  shall  I  describe  my 
sensations  at  the  sight  of  my  wife,  scarcely 
the  shadow  of  her  former  self — pale,  thin; 
her  eyes  sunk,  heavy  and  devoid  of  lustre  ! 

'George,1  said  she,  putting  her  dear  boy 
into  my  arms,  'you  arc  come  home  in  time 


196  REBECCA. 

to  receive  this  pledge'  of  my  love,  and  to 
close  my  eyes ;  but  1  shall  die  content,  sen- 
sible that  you  will  be  a  kind  father  to  my 
child.' 

'  I  endeavored  to  cheer  her,  and  inspire 
her  with  hopes  which  I  could  not  rationally 
indulge  myself.  I  procured  the  best  medi- 
cal advice,  but  all  in  vain;  she  grew  worse 
and  worse,  and  expired  in  less  than  a  fort- 
night after  my  arrival  in  England. 

'Previous  to  her  death,  she  informed  me 
that  another  more  splendid  offer  of  marriage, 
strenuously  urged  by  herfather,  had  wrung 
from  her  the  secret  of  our  marriage,  and  that 
she  was  immediately  dismissed  from  her  fa- 
ther's house  in  a  most  disgraceful  manner; 
that  she  had  written  to  my  uncle,  claiming 
his  protection,  if  not  on  her  own  account, 
for  the  sake  of  the  unborn  infant;  but  his 
answer  was,  that  as  1  chose  to  marry  with- 
out consulting  him,  I  might  maintain  her  as 
I  could,  for  he  would  never  more  do  any 
thing  for  me  ;  and  as  to  her,  he  thought  she 
must  have  behaved  very  ill  when  her  own 
father  had  discarded  her.  From  that  time 
he  entirely  withdrew  his  favor  from  me,  and 
though  1  went  to  him  soon  after  the  death 
of  my  wife,  1  was  not  permitted  to  see  him. 

'About  this  time  your  father,  who  was 
then  an  ensign  in  a  marching  regiment,  was 
ordered  to  Ireland.  I  had  not  seen  him  for 
some  years,  as  he   had    been    stationed    at 


REBECCA.  197 

Plymouth';  but  could  not  let  him  leave  the 
kingdom  without  taking  a  personal  leave  ;  I 
therefore  left  my  dear  boy  with  the  good 
woman  where  my  Rosa  had  lodged,  and  set 
off  for  that  place. 

'  1  had  not  been  with  my  brother  above 
three  days  before  I  received  a  letter  from 
the  nurse,  informing  me  that  my  boy  had 
been  carried  off  by  a  convulsion  fit  the  day 
after  I  left  Windsor.  The  world  now  ap- 
peared to  me  a  universal  blank.  I  consid- 
ered myself  as  a  mere  cipher,  without  fam- 
ily, connexion  or  friends,  and  possessing  but 
a  small  portion  of  worldly  goods.  1  had 
formed  an  acquaintance  with  several  officers 
belonging  to  one  of  his  majesty's  ships  going 
to  China  ;  a  desire  of  roving  took  possession 
of  my  mind.  1  had,  when  a  boy,  been  fond 
of  the  study  of  mathematics,  and  during  my 
voyage  to  Jamaica  had  contracted  a  fond- 
ness for  a  nautical  life,  I  therefore  requested 
to  be  admitted  on  board  the  Triton,  and  was 
accepted. 

'  In  this  ship  1  went  to  the  East-Indies,  ful- 
ly resolved  never  to  visit  England  again. — 
This  resolution  I  kept  inviolate  for  many 
years,  always  changing  into  some  ship  sta- 
tioned in  those  parts  whenever  the  one  I  was 
in  was  remanded  home.  In  his  majesty's 
service  1  arose  by  degrees  to  the  rank  of 
lieutenant,  and  my  ambition  had  led  me  to 
hope,  during  this  war,  I  should  have  risen 
17* 


190  REBECCA. 

still  higher;  for  the  ship  I  was  in  being  or- 
dered home,  and  1  unable  to  obtain  an  ex- 
change into  one  stationed  in  India,  returned 
to  England,  and  was  soon  after  sent  in  a  cut- 
ter with  expresses  to  the  fleet  at  New-York^ 
whence  I  was  despatched  to  Boston,  where 
I  unfortunately  arrived  after  the  evacuation 
by  his  majesty's  troops,  and  of  course  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  I  have  been 
detained  a  prisoner  now  nearly  two  years, 
frequently  removed  from  one  place  to  an- 
other, and  every  removal  is  for  the  worse; 
but  1  hear  there  is  now  an  exchange  of  pris- 
oners talked  of,  so  I  hope  to  be  included  in 
the  cartel.1 

'But  did  you  never  write  to  my  father?' 
said  Rebecca. 

'Yes  ;  frequently  during  the  first  years  of 
my  absence  from  Europe;  but  never  receiv- 
ing any  answers,  owing,  as  I  imagined,  to 
the  unsettled  life  a  soldier  in  general  leads, 
I  at  length  ceased  to  write.  When  I  was 
last  in  England  I  inquired  for  him  of  some 
of  our  old  friends,  and  learned  that  he  was 
married,  and  had  one  child;  but  they  could 
give  no  information  where  he  was  settled,  as 
they  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  from  him 
for  many  years,' 

Rebecca  felt  a  gleam  of  comfort  dilate  her 
affectionate  heart  at  having  thus  unexpect- 
edly found  a  relation.  '  I  am  not  then  en- 
tirely  unconnected,' said  she,  mentally,  at 


REBECCA.  199 

the  same  time  laying  her  hand  on  that  of 
her  uncle,  and  looking  at  him  with  eyes 
swimming  with  filial  tenderness,  excited  by 
the  strong  resemblance  he  bore  to  her  fa- 
ther. 

vMy  dear  girl,1  said  he,  'you  have  found 
an  old  uncle  who  will  love  you  with  all  his 
heart,  and  defend  you  to  the  last  hour  of  his 
existence;  but  I  am  as  poor,  Rebecca,  as 
when  I  first  put  on  his  majesty's  livery.  In 
all  my  long  service  I  have  not  picked  up 
above  two  hundred  pounds  prize  money, 
and  thinking  I  had  no  one  to  take  it  after 
me,  I  have  spent  it  as  fast,  or,  perhaps,  some- 
times faster  than  1  gained  it.  But  my  pay 
has  been  running  so  long,  we  shall  be  quite 
rich  when  I  get  home,  and  you  shall  call  me 
father,  and  make  up  to  me  the  loss  of  my 
Rosa  and  her  boy.1 

'  I  will  be  your  daughter  in  every  sense  of 
the  word,1  said  Rebecca,  affectionately  kiss- 
ing his  hand. 

The  conversation  now  took  a  more  gen- 
eral turn;  colonel  Abthorpe  was  delighted 
with  the  acquisition  of  a  friend.  They  could 
not  think  of  parting  till  evening,  nor  then 
without  a  mutual  promise  of  maintaining  a 
frequent  intercourse. 


200  REBECCA. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

When  colonel  Abthorpe  retired  to  rest,  he 
revolved  in  his  mind  what  Mr  Littleton  had 
said  concerning  an  exchange  of  prisoners, 
his  wife's  declining  health  had  long  made 
him  uneasy.  He  flattered  himself  was  he 
once  removed  from  captivity,  and  enabled 
to  obtain  subsistence  for  his  family,  her 
mind  would  be  more  at  ease,  and  she  would 
of  consequence  recover  her  health  and  spir- 
its. These  reflections  occupied  him  all  night, 
and  totally  banished  sleep.  At  dawn  of  day 
he  arose,  and  sat  down  to  draw  up  a  petition, 
praying  to  be,  with  his  family,  included  in 
the  intended  exchange.  This  petition  he 
presented  to  the  General  Court.  The  an- 
swer he  received  was  a  repetition  of  the  of- 
fers of  employment  in  the  American  army, 
enforced  with  the  most  beneficial  and  lucra- 
tive rewards  for  his  services.  These  he 
strenuously  rejected,  declaring  a  resolution 
to  die  rather  than  forsake  the  cause  of  loy- 
alty. They  found  it  was  in  vain  to  increase 
their  offers;  he  continued  unmoved.  If  he 
sighed  it  was  in  secret,  and  he  waited  with 
an  assumed  patience  the  end  of  his  misfor- 
tunes, while  the  most  afflictive  sensations 
corroded  in  his  bosom.  But  when  he  had 
almost  bidden  adieu  to  hope,  when  despair 
seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  his  mind, 


REBECCA.  201 

then  was  deliverance  nearest  at  hand,  and 
he  received  a  letter,  informing  him  that  he 
was  to  be  exchanged  with  his  family,  by  the 
very  next  cartel.  They  were  accordingly 
removed  to  Boston,  and,  in  company  with 
Mr  Littleton,  put  on  board  a  small  vessel, 
bearing  a  Aug  of  truce,  in  which  they  ar- 
rived, after  ten  days'  passage,  safe  at  Hal- 
ifax. 

Here  Mr  Littleton  was  immediately  em- 
ployed, and  drew  on  his  agent  for  money  to 
provide  himself  and  Rebecca  with  necessa- 
ries ;  nor  did  he  withhold  part  of  his  little 
store  from  colonel  Abthorpe,  who  was  real- 
ly in  necessitous  circumstances.  Mrs  Ab- 
thorpe's  malady  had  gained  too  much  on  her 
delicate  constitution  ever  to  be  repelled. — 
She  continued  to  decline,  and,  in  a  few  days 
after  their  arrival  in  Nova-Scotia,  she  sunk 
to  eternal  rest.  Rebecca  exerted  herself  to 
comfort  poor  Sophia;  but  it  was  now  be- 
come absolutely  necessary  for  them  to  part. 
Colonel  Abthorpe  had  not  the  means  even 
of  supporting  himself  and  daughter,  much 
less  an  extra  person  ;  besides,  Rebecca  was 
eager  to  revisit  England,  and  see  her  moth- 
er; he  therefore  furnished  her  with  recom- 
mendatory letters  to  several  ladies  in  Lon- 
don. Her  uncle  provided  her  a  passage, 
and  gave  her  an  order  on  his  agent  for  the 
small   remainder  of  all   his  worldly  wealth. 

She  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  her  dear 


202  REBECCA. 

Miss  Abthorpe,  and  embarked  for  her  na- 
tive land.  It  seemed  as  (hough  the  elements 
were  as  eager  to  convey  our  heroine  in  safe- 
ty home,  as  they  had  been  perverse  and  tar- 
dy bearing  her  thence;  for  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  day  from  her  leaving  Halifax,  at  the 
close  of  the  evening,  she  found  herself  set 
down  at  the  door  of  the  Cross-keys  inn,  in 
Grace-Church  Street,  London.  She  had 
landed  with  a  widow  lady  and  her  maiden 
sister,  who  came  in  the  ship  with  her  at 
Deal,  and  they  proceeded  to  town  in  a  post- 
chaise.  She  remained  at  the  inn  with  them 
that  night,  and  the  next  morning  set  out  in  a 
coach  to  seek  the  benevolent  friend  of  Mrs 
Harris  in  the  borough.  She  was  removed, 
but  Mrs  Harris  herself  occupied  the  house; 
Rebecca,  therefore,  met  a  hearty  welcome, 
and  determined  to  take  up  her  abode  with 
hc*r  till  she  could  hear  from  her  mother,  to 
whom  she  immediately  wrote. 

Anxiously  did  she  count  the  time  till  she 
thought  if  possible  to  receive  an  answer. — 
At  length  the  welcome  sound  of  a  postman's 
rap  saluted  her  ears.  She  almost  flew  to 
the  door.  The  letter  required  double  post- 
age;  she  paid  it  without  hesitation,  and  hast- 
ily returned  to  the  parlor  to  examine  its  con- 
tents ;  but  as  she  approached  the  candle, 
what  were  her  feelings  to  discover  it  was 
her  own  letter  returned,  with  these  words 
written  on  the  outside  : 


REBECCA  203 

*  Removed  to  London  two  years  ago.' 
'To  London!'  said  Rebecca;  'but  what 
part  of  London?  Gracious  heavens!  that  I 
should  be  in  the  same  place  with  my  moth- 
er, and  yet  unable  to  find  her !  But,  perhaps, 
3  have  no  mother  now,'  continued  she,  sor- 
rowfully, 'she  has  been  removed  two  years; 
alas!  sorrow  may  have  levelled  her  with  the 
dust  long  since.1 

She  then  endeavored  to  recollect  some 
person  in  her  native  village,  to  whom  she 
could  address  herself,  in  hopes  of  gaining  in- 
formation whether  her  mother  had  mention- 
ed what  part  of  the  town  she  intended  to  re- 
side in.  At  length  she  recollected  the  pa- 
rents of  Ruth,  who  had  lived  several  years 
a  servant  in  the  family,  and  was  with  them 
when  her  father  died.  To  them  she  imme- 
diately wrote,  and  as  early  as  she  could 
possibly  expect,  received  the  following  an- 
swer: 

*  MY  DEAK  YOUNG    MISTRESS, 

'This  comes  with  father  and  mother's 
kind  love  to  you,  letting  you  know  that  wc 
are  all  main  glad  to  hear  you  are  alive,  and 
come  home  again  to  old  England;  for,  cer- 
tain sure,  we  all  thought  you  had  been  dead 
a  long  while  ago;  so  when  father  put  on 
his  spectacles,  and  began  to  read  your  let- 
ter. 1  thought  as  how  r  should  have  sounded 
for  joy  ;  indeed,  and  for  sarten,  Miss  Becky. 


204  REBECCA. 

I  would  walk  a  many  long  miles  to  see  your 
sweet  face.  Oh!  dear,  if  you  was  but  as 
rich  and  as  happy  as  you  are  good,  and  as 
we  all  wish  you 

'  As  to  your  mother,  we  are  deadly  afraid 
she  has  made  but  a  poor  hand  of  marrying 
again,  for  old  Serle  was  but  a  shabby  kind 
of  body,  though  he  pretended  to  be  so  grand, 
and  tried  to  make  folks  believe  he  was  a 
gentleman. 

4  To  be  sure,  they  did  flash  away  about  a 
month  or  two  after  they  were  married,  and 
Peg  Serle  had  a  mortal  sight  of  new  clothes, 
but  for  all  she  never  looked  like  a  lady. — 
Father  said  as  how  you  looked  more  like 
one  in  a  linen  gown,  and  your  nice  curling 
hair  without  powder,  than  she  did  in  her  fine 
silks  and  satins,  and  her  hair  plastered  up 
with  grease  and  flour;  but  after  all  they  did 
not  hold  out  so  long.  Serle  did  not  use  your 
poor  foolish  mother  well;  he  kept  a  hussy 
almost  under  her  nose,  and  used  to  be  al- 
ways drinking  and  sotting,  and  so  the  finery 
all  went  away  by  littles  an  littles,  and  then 
they  got  sadly  in  debt,  and  at  last  went  off 
to  London,  without  letting  any  body  know- 
about  it ;  but  cousin  Dick  was  in  London  last 
Martinmas  twelve  months,  and  he  said  he 
saw  Mrs  Serle  go  into  a  house  in  Westmin- 
ster, but  she  looked  main  shabby,  and  we 
never  since  heard  any  thing  about  her. 

'Father  bid  me  tell  you,  that  he  read  in 


REBECCA.  205 

the  newspapers  how  that  sir  George  Wor- 
thy is  married  to  a  great  lady ;  but  father 
says,  he  could  not  have  found  a  more  bet- 
ter lady  than  your  own  sweet  self,  be  the 
other  who  she  may;  and  we  all  thought  as 
how  when  lady  Mary  (bless  her  dear  name  !) 
took  you  to  live  with  her,  that  we  should  one 
day  see  you  come  back  to  the  village,  lady 
of  the  manor ;  but  it  can't  be  helped,  marry- 
ing and  hanging,  they  say,  goes  by  fate. — 
Mother  and  father  send  their  kind  love  and 
duty  to  you,  wishing  you  a  good  rich  hus- 
band, and  soon;  and  so  no  more  at  present 
from  yours  to  serve  till  death. 

RUTH    RUSSET.' 

When  Rebecca  had  finished  reading  this 
letter,  her  mind  was  in  a  state  of  anarchy, 
better  imagined  than  described.  She  sat 
with  the  letter  open  on  the  table  before  her, 
her  hands  folded  in  each  other,  her  eyes  fix- 
ed on  vacancy. 

4 Well,  what  news,  my  dear?'  said  Mrs 
Harris,  as  she  came  into  the  room,  and  with- 
out particularly  observing  Rebecca,  very 
leisurely  stirred  the  fire  as  she  spoke  to  her. 

'He^is  married,''  replied  Rebecca  uncon- 
sciously. 

'Well,  child,  you  were  acquainted  with 
that  before,  I  thought.' 

'No,  indeed;  this  is  the  first  I  have  ever 
heard  of  it.' 

18 


206  REBECCA. 

'Why,  how  you  talk!'  said  Mrs  Harris, 
staring  at  her;  'to  my  certain  knowledge 
she  wrote  you  word  of  it  herself.' 

'  Who  wrote  me  word  of  it?' 

'Why,  your  mother,  child.' 

'Oh,  my  mother.!'  cried  Rebecca,  trying 
to  rally  her  scattered  thoughts,  then  paus- 
ing for  a  moment,  k  my  poor  mother,' con- 
tinued she,  bursting  into  tears,  I  1  fear  1  shall 
never  see  her  more.' 

There  was  a  wildness  in  her  looks,  an  in- 
coherence in  her  manner,  that  alarmed  the 
compassionate  Mrs  Harris.  She  drew  a 
chair,  and  sat  down  beside  her,  took  both 
her  hands  in  hers,  pressed  them  tenderly, 
but  remained  silent.  This  was  a  conduct 
more  congenial  to  the  mind  of  Rebecca  than 
the  most  eloquent  harangue  could  have  been. 
She  rested  her  head  on  the  bosom  of  her 
friend,  gave  a  free  vent  to  her  tears,  and,  by 
degrees,  regained  a  tolerable  degree  of  com- 
posure. 

When  Rebecca  had  repelled  the  violence 
of  her  first  emotions,  on  finding  sir  George 
was  really  lost  to  her,  her  mother's  unfor- 
tunate marriage,  and  its  consequences  re- 
curred to  her  mind  ;  she  retired  to  bed,  but 
not  to  rest ;  sleep  was  a  stranger  to  her  eyes, 
and  her  thoughts  were  so  harassed,  that  in 
the  morning  her  heavy  eyes,  pale  lips,  and 
burning  hands,  alarmed  Mrs  Harris. 

'Come,  come,  my  child.'  said  she,  gently 


REBECCA.  207 

shaking  her, '  I  must  not  see  you  in  this  way  ; 
you  are  far  from  well  now,  and  if  you  go  on 
fretting  thus,  I  shall  have  you  quite  laid  up. 
You  must  rOuse  yourself,  my  dear  ;  it  is  very 
wrong  to  give  way  to  sorrow  for  misfortunes 
that  are  irremediable.  Chance  may,  per* 
haps,  discover  in  what  part  of  the  town  your 
mother  is;  in  the  mean  time  you  must  not 
neglect  your  own  interest.  You  have  never 
waited  on  any  of  the  ladies  to  whom  colonel 
Abthorpe  gave  you  letters.  I  will  have  you 
dress  yourself  this  very  day,  and  gn  to  some 
of  them.  Perhaps  you  may  meet  with  a  sit- 
uation where,  by  having  your  mind  constant- 
ly-occupied, you  will  have  no  time  to  fret 
yourself  to  death,  which  I  foresee  will  be 
the  case  if  you  are  left  to  yourself.1 

'Indeed,  Mrs  Harris,  1  have  no  cause  to 
wish  for  life,'  said  Rebecca,  in  a  melancholy 
accent;  'for  in  the  whole  world  I  have  no 
friend  but  ^ou  and  my  poor  uncle;  him,  per- 
haps, I  shall  never  see  again,  and.  you,  1  fear, 
Will  get  weary  of  such  a  child  of  sorrow.' 

'Now  you  are  very  unkind,  Rebecca,  to 
suppose  me  capable  of  neglecting  }7ou,  or  be- 
ing wearied  by  your  complaints.  No,  my 
child,"  1  feel  for  you  every  thing  friendship 
and  affection  can  feel  for  a  beloved  object; 
and  it  is  because  1  think  it  necessary  to  your 
health  that  you  should  be  roused  from  this 
slate  of  inaction,  that  makes  me  willing  to  be 
deprived  of  your  society  ;  besides,  my  dear. 


208  REBECCA. 

your  mother  may  be,  nay,  in  all  probability, 
is  alive  ;  and,  at  some  future  period,  you  may 
have  it  in  your  power  to  render  her  happy 
and  comfortable  in  her  latter  hours  by  your 
tenderness  and  filial  love  ;  for  her  sake  then, 
exert  your  natural  good  sense,  and  bear 
your  afflictions  with  becoming  resignation; 
it  is  a  duty  you  ovVe  to  her,  to  yourself,  and 
to  your  Creator.' 

'Oh!  Mrs  Harris,*  cried  Rebecca,  '  par- 
don my  petulance;  1  seethe  friendly  design 
of  your  advice,  and  will  exert  myself  to  fol- 
low it.' 

She  nowliegan  to  look  over  her  letters 
and  determined  to  wait  that  morning  on  la- 
dy Winterton. 

Rebecca's  dress  was  plain  and  neat  in  the 
extreme,  yet  there  was  a  dignity  in  her  per- 
son and  manner  of  address  that  ever  com- 
manded respect;  she,  therefore,  on  knock- 
ing at  lord  Winlerton's  door,  was  immediate- 
ly ushered  into  a  parlor,  and  the  servant 
took  the  letter  to  his  lady. 

The  lady  was  at  her  morning  toilet.  She 
cast  her  eyes  hastily  over  the  letter. 

'What  kind  of  a  person  brought  this  let- 
ter, Thomas?'  said  she  to  the  man  who  wait- 
ed just  without  the  door  of  the  dressing-room. 

'A  very  genteel  young  woman,'  replied 
the  man-. 

'Well  show  her  into  the  breakfast-parlor. 


REBECCA.  209 

and  tell  her  I  shall  be  with  her  presently. 
Is  my  lord  up?' 

'  Ws,  ray  lady,  he  is  just  gone  down.' 

'Well,  go,  do  as  I  bid  you.' 

The  man  departed,  and  Rebecca  was  de- 
sired to  walk  into  a  parlor,  where,  in  his 
night-gown  and  slippers,  sat  a  personage, 
the  exact  counterpart  of  lord  Ogleby,  in  the 
Clandestine  Marriage. 

Rebecca  started,  and  was  going  to  retire. 

'Pray,  madam,'  said  my  lord,  rising,  'do 
not  let  rae  frighten  you;  my  lady  will  be 
here  directly.  Thomas,  reach  a  chair  for 
the  young  lady.' 

Rebecca  blushed,  courtcsied,  and  took 
her  seat. 

My  lord  eyed  her  attentively.  She  felt 
her  confusion  increase. 

'She  is  a  very  fine  girl,'  thought  his  lord- 
ship; 'I  wonder  who  the  devil  she  is!' 

'The  weather  is  very  fine  for  the  season, 
madam,'  said  he,  thinking  it  was  incumbent 
on  him  to  say  something,  though,  in  fact,  it 
had  rained  incessantly  for  a  week. 

'The  sun  did  break  out  for  about  an  hour 
this  morning,'  said  our  heroine,  half  smil- 
ing, 'but  he  seems  to  have  withdrawn  him- 
self again.' 

'  He  was  conscious,  madam,  that  when 
your  beauties  were  visible  to  the  admiring 
eyes  of  mortals,  his  fainter  glories  could  not 
be  missed  !' 

18* 


210  REBECCA. 

'Heavens!1  thought  Rebecca,  'what  a  ri- 
diculous old  man,  with  his  bombastic  compli- 
ment: however,  I  am  glad  he  is  old;  per- 
haps his  lady  will  want  a  person  to  read  to 
her,  or,  by  cheerful  assiduily,  otherwise 
amuse  her.''  She  had  in  her  own  mind,  pic- 
lured  lady  Winterton  as  an  elderly  lady, 
perhaps,  upwards  of  sixty  years  old.  'In 
this  family,'  thought  she,  'should  1  be  so 
happy  as  to  be  placed,  1  should  be  free  from 
the  noise  and  impertinence  so  frequently  to 
be  met  with  in  the  families  of  young  people 
of  quality.  1  dare  say  they  do  not  keep 
much  company;  nay,  perhaps,  live  in  the 
country  above  half  the  year.  1  wish  1  may 
suit  her  ladyship;  she  certainly  wants  some- 
body, either  for  herself  or  some  of  her 
acquaintance,  by  her  desiring  me  to  wait 
to  see  her.' 

As  Rebecca  was  indulging  these  reflec- 
tions the  door  opened  and  a  lady  entered, 
in  appearance  not  more  than  twenty,  habit- 
ed in  a  very  modish  undress. 

'Miss  Littleton,  1  presume,'  said  she,  ad- 
vancing.    Rebecca  courtesied. 

'Colonel  Abthorpe,'  said  the  lady,  mo- 
tioning for  her  to  be  again  seated,  '  has  had 
a  very  disagreeable  time  in  America.  I 
dare  say  you  are  happy  to  find  yourself  in 
England  again.' 

•Sincerely  so,  madam.' 


REBECCA.  211 

'This,'  thought  Rebecca,  'is  undoubtedly 
a  daughter.' 

k  The  colonel  mentions,'  resumed  the  la- 
dy, 'that  you  would  wish  to  engage  as  com- 
panion to  an  elderly  lady,  or  as  governess 
to  some  genteel  family  of  children.' 

'  Either  situation  would  suit  me,  madam,' 
said  Rebecca;  'and  if  lady  Winterton  could 
recommend  me ' 

'  Lady  Winterton  wants  a  companion  her- 
self,' said  the  lady,  smiling;  'but,  perhaps, 
her  age  will  be  an  objection.' 

'By  no  means,  madam;  I  should  give  the 
preference  to  an  elderly  lady.' 

The  lady  laughed;  Rebecca  blushed,  and 
feared  she  had  been  guilty  of  some  impro- 
priety. 

'Why,  my  dear  creature,"'  said  the  lady, 
'I  am  afraid  that  you  and  I  shall  never 
agree,  though  colonel  Ablhorpe  seemed  to 
think  you  might  prove  an  acquisition  to  me; 
but  I  am  too  young  for  you,  so  must  posi- 
tively turn  you  over  to  my  lord  ;  he  is  more 
adapted  to  your  taste.' 

'Your  ladyship  must  pardon  my  igno- 
rance,' said  the  trembling,  blushing  Rebec- 
ca, 'I  really  had  no  idea ' 

'Hear  her!  hear  her!  my  dear  lord;  she 
had  no  idea  that  your  senatorial  wisdom 
could  have  for  a  wife  such  an  inconsiderate 
rattle.  1  would  bet  a  thousand  pounds  she 
took  you  for  my  papa.' 


212  REBECCA. 

'  Your  ladyship  is  pleased  to  display  your 
xv  t  .it  the  expense  of  good  manners,'  said 
his  lordship. 

kOh,  1  humbly  crave  your  pardon,'  cried 
she,  wiih  a  most  bewitching  smile,  'I  meant 
no  offence;  you  know  I  cannot  help  other 
people's  mistakes  5  for  my  own  part  Ilhink 
you  infinitely  charming;'  then  twisting  one 
of  his  gray  locks  round  her  beautiful  fin- 
gers, she  continued,  lthe  snow  on  the  hills, 
and  the  icicles  pendant  from  the  leafless 
trees  in  December,  are,  in  my  eyes,  as  beau- 
tiful as  the  variegated  fields  and  full  blown 
hawthorn  in  May.  1  like  every  thing  in  its 
season,  and  am,  moreover,  a  great  admirer 
of  natural  curiosities.' 

'  Impertinent !'  said  his  lordship,  rising 
angrily,  and  quitting  the  room. 

'Well,  now  he  is  gone,'  said  her  lady-" 
ship,  drawing  her  chair  near  Rebecca,  'let 
us  have  a  little  serious  talk.  You  cannot 
suppose  that  inclination  led  me  to  give  my 
hand  to  that  ludicrous  piece  of  antiquity; 
no,  my  dear  girl,  1  married  him  to  serve  a 
father  whom,  next  to  heaven,  1  love;  and 
to  get  from  the  power  of  an  ill-natured  maid- 
en aunt,  who  had  kept  me  at  school  for  fear 
1  should  mar  her  fortune,  and  despoil  her  of 
all  her  lovers;  for  she  had  a  fortune  of 
thirty  thousand  pounds,  and  that  gave  her 
wizened  face  and  skeleton  figure  ten  thou- 
sand charms;  she  or  her  fortune  had  admir- 


REBECCA.  213 

ers  innumerable.  I  was  always  with  her  at 
the  holj'days.  My  lord  saw  me  at  the  play. 
Charmed  at  the  idea  of  getting  me  married 
out  of  the  way,  she  made  her  will,  bequeath- 
ing to  me  all  her  fortune  in  case  she  died 
without  issue. 

'This  was  buzzed  about;  her  lovers  all 
forsook  her;  and  poor  aunty  died  shortly  of 
a  broken  heart,  in  the  fifty-ninth  year  of  her 
age!  My  father  had  married  this  lady's  sis- 
ter. He  was  poor;  she  was  the  co-heiress 
of  a  large  fortune;  but  alas!  she  knew  not 
that  if  she  married  without  her  guardian's 
consent,  the  whole  of  her  fortune  went  to 
her  eldest  sister. 

'Disappointment  and  sorrow  soon  put  a 
period  to  her  existence.  My  father  contin- 
ued in  poverty,  but  1  was  committed  to  the 
care  of  my  wealthy  aunt. 

'At  the  time  1  became  acquainted  with 
lord  Wintcrton,  my  father's  circumstances 
were  dreadfully  embarrassed.  My  auut 
would  not  advance  a  single  guinea  to  keep 
him  from  jail.  I  knew  this  marriage  would 
place  him  in  affluence,  and,  at  the  age  of 
sixteen,  gave  my  hand,  promised  to  love 
and  obey,  before  my  heart  knew  what  love 
was.  I  have  been  married  now  five  years; 
my  temper  is  naturally  cheerful,  and  1  am 
an  enemy  to  thought;  but  1  have  that  with- 
in mc  which  convinces  me  I    have  a  heart 


2*4  REBECCA. 

alive  to  every  delicate  sensation  of  disinter- 
ested tenderness. 

S'Yoa  may,  perhaps,  think  it  odd  that  ! 
am  thus  open  to  a  stronger;  but  colonel  Ab- 
thorpe,  who  was  the  intimate  friend  of  my 
father,  has  given  you  a  character  which  has 
made  me  wish  to  awaken  an  interest  in  your 
heart,  that  1  may  have  one  bosom  in  which 
to  repose  my  sorrows,  one  friend  who  will 
pity  my  frailties.' 

Rebecca  felt  inclined  to  love  this  unfor- 
tunate young  creature,  from  the  first  mo- 
ment she  beheld  her.  A  \cvy  few  words 
served  to  settle  every  preliminary,  and  it 
was  agreed  that  the  next  day  she  should  re- 
pair to  her  new  situation. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

When  Rebecca  began  to  feel  herself  set- 
tled in  Wimpole  Street,  she  also  began  to 
find  that  she  had  entered  into  an  entire  new 
line  of  life.  Lady  Winterton  was  extreme- 
ly gay,  saw  a  great  deal  of  company,  and 
lived  in  one  continued  round  of  dressing,  vis- 
iting, and  public  amusements.  It  was  in 
vain  for  our  heroine  to  object  to  accompa- 
nying her;  she  had  taken  a  peculiar  fancy 
to  her  society,  and  was  never  happy  with- 
out her.     Lord  Winterton  loved  gayeiy,  and 


REBECCA.  215 

an  oslcntalious  display  of  grandeur,  as  well 
as  his  lady.  She  was,  therefore  never  con- 
tracted in  her  pleasures,  were  they  ever  so 
extravagant;  and  the  old  peer  thought  him- 
self amply  repaid  for  the  mostspendid  enter- 
tainments or  elegant  presents,  by  the  smiles 
and  good  humor  of  his  lady,  who,  in  spite  of 
her  caprice  and  satirical  wit,  he  tenderly 
loved. 

One  morning  Rebecca  had  accompanied 
her  friend  to  an  auction,  where  the\  had 
scarcely  been  seated  ten  minutes  before  a 
very  elegant  young  man  approached  them, 
and  being  introduced  to  her  as  JVJr  Savage, 
a  particular  friend  of  her  ladyship's,  attach- 
ed himself  to  them  the  whole  morning.  Re- 
becca did  not  observe  any  thing  uncommon 
in  his  attentions  to  lady  Winterton,  but  she 
thought,  as  he  handed  her  ladyship  to  her 
carriage,  she  saw  him  put  a  folded  paper  in- 
to her  hand,  which  she  immediately  con- 
veyed to  her  pocket. 

As  it  drew  towards  evening,  the  lady 
seemed  vastly  uneasy,  especially  when  she 
found  her  lord  meant  to  spend  his  evening  at 
home:  however,  after  she  had  taken  her 
tea,  shev ordered  her  chariot. 

'  Am  I  not  to  have  the  pleasure  of  your 
company,  Fanny  ?'  said  his  lords!) ip.  '  I  pro- 
posed supping  at  home,  because  1  heard  you 
were  disengaged.' 

'Oh,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  at  home  again  in 


216  REBECCA. 

about  two  hours.  Miss  Littleton  and  I  arc 
only  going  to  call  on  a  sick  friend  of  hers.T 
Rebecca  started.  Lady  Winterton  gave 
her  a  supplicating  look,  and  surprised  as  she 
was,  she  remained  silent. 

1  If  Miss  Littleton  has  a  wish  to  visit  her 
friends,'  said  his  lordship,  'the  chariot  is 
certainly  at  her  service;  but  surely,  my  dear 
Fanny,  you  are  not  obliged  to  accompany 
her.' 

'  Indeed,  but  I  am  ;  and  I  am  sensible  the 
lady  will  take  it  very  unkind  were  1'to  neg- 
lect going.  Don'iyou  think  she  would,  Re- 
becca V 

' 1  think,'  said  Rebecca,  timidly,  '  we  may 
both  venture  to  defer  our  visit  till  the  morn- 
ing, as  my  lord  is  so  kind  as  to  spend  the 
evening  at  home.' 

'  Ah  !  that  is  your  good  nature,  my  dear  •, 
you  would  rather  offend  your  friend  than 
lead  me  to  disoblige  my  husband.  But  sup- 
pose we  settle  it  in  this  way;  1  will  go  and 
see  how  the  lady  is,  and  you  shall  stay  and 
engage  my  lord  at  piquet.  I  shall  just  call 
at  the  mantua-maker\s  in  my  way  home,  and 
be  with  you  again  before  supper.' 

'Your  ladyship  will  pardon  me,'  said  Re- 
becca, giving  her  a  penetrating  look.  'As 
you  are  resolved  to  go,  you  shall  not  have 
to  say  I  am  remiss  in  duty  to  my  friend. — 
I  am  ready  to  attend  you,  madam,'  rising, 
and  ringing  for  her  cloak. 


REBECCA.  217 

4  For  heaven's  sake  !  lady  Winterton,'  said 
Rebecca,  as  the  chariot  drove  from  the  door, 
'  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  You  have 
distressed  me  beyond  measure,  by  calling 
on  me  to  assert  a  falsehood.' 

'Now  you  are  angry  with  me,  Rebecca,' 
said  the  lady,  taking  her  hand;  'but  pray 
think  no  more  about  it.  I  could  contrive  no 
other  method  to  get  away  from  that  inquis- 
itive old  man  without  telling  him  where  I 
was  going.' 

'And  surely  your  ladyship  does  not  wish 
to  go  any  where,  that  would  be  offensive  to 
your  husband.' 

'Oh  !  my  dear  girl,  you  will  never  forgive 
me,  you  are  such  a  prudent  creature  your- 
self; but  1  am   going  to  meet ,  though, 

believe  me,  it  shall  be  the  last  time.  I  am 
going  to  meet — and  take  a  last  farewell  of 
Savage.' 

'By  your  ladyship's  promising  it  shall  be 
the  last  time,  I  am  led  to  think  it  is  not  the 
firsl.  I  could  have  excused  your  making 
me  accessary  to  such  an  affair;  however,  I 
shall  take  care  not  to  be  liable  to  be  drawn 
in  a  second  time.' 

'  Ah  S  Miss  Littleton,  you  have  no  compas- 
sion for  a  susceptible  heart.' 

'Yes,  lady   Winterton,  I  have   an  infinite 

deal;  I  feel  for  you  sincerely  if,  when  your 

person  is  united  to  one,  your  heart  is  in  the 

possession  of  another.     Your  feelings,  mad- 

19 


218  REBECCA. 

am,  are  involuntary  ;  your  actions  are  by 
no  means  so.  I  am  sensible  you  may  not 
be  able  to  conquer  the  weakness  of  your 
heart;  but  you  certainly  may  avoid  throw- 
ing yourself  into  situations  which  may  lead 
to  criminality.' 

The  chariot  now  stopped ;  lady  Winter- 
ton  alighted;  and  Rebecca  followed  her  si- 
lently into  a  parlor  where  Savage  was  eager- 
ly expecting  her. 

The  ensuing  scene,  to  which  our  heroine 
was  a  witness,  though  it  awakened  all  her 
compassion  for  the  lovers,  who  in  years, 
sentiments,  and  manners,  seemed  so  suitable 
to  each  other,  it  gave  her  but  an  indifferent 
opinion  of  her  lady's  prudence.  Savage, 
from  his  conversation,  appeared  a  man  of 
strict  honor;  he  did  not  seem  to  entertain 
an  idea  to  the  injury  of  his  mistress;  but 
that  unfortunate  woman,  hurried  on  by  the 
violence  of  her  passion,  made  a  thousand 
discoveries  of  her  unbounded  affection  for 
him,  which,  with  a  man  of  less  integrity, 
might  have  precipitated  her  into  everlasting 
infamy. 

The  promise  of  returning  to  supper  was 
quite  forgotten.  Rebecca  reminded  her  of 
the  hour;  she  heard  her  not,  and  the  clock 
struck  twelve  before  she  could  bring  herself 
to  leave  her  lover. 

During  their  ride  home  Rebecca  spoke 
not  a  syllable,  except  one  or  two  laconic 


REBECCA.  219 

answers  to  her  lady's  questions.  She  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  hall,  and  taking  a  candle 
from  a  servant,  wished  her  a  good  night, 
and  ran  "hastily  up  stairs,  leaving  lady  VVin- 
lerton  to  make  her  excuses  to  her  husband 
for  her  breach  of  promise. 

The  next  morning  as  she  was  rising,  one 
of  the  maids  brought  her  the  following  note  : 

'For  heaven's  sake!  my  dear  Rebecca, 
do  not  contradict  whatever  you  hear  said 
at  breakfast,  as  you  value  the  peace  of 

F.    WINTERTON.' 

Rebecca  threw  the  note  into  the  fire,  and 
went  down  stairs.  Her  lord  and  lady  were 
already  in  the  parlor. 

'  And  how  do  you  find  yourself  this  morn- 
ing, my  dear?'  said  her  ladyship.  'I  vow 
you  quite  frightened  me  last  night.' 

'Are  you  often  taken  in  such  a  strange 
manner?1  said  his  lordship,  with  a  look  of 
concern. 

'No,  indeed,  my  lord;  I  was  taken  quite 
by  surprise  last  night,  and  was  very  pain- 
fully affected.  1  never  was  taken  that  way 
before,  but  I  felt  a  return  of  the  disorder  this 
morning.' 

'  Indeed !' cried  her  ladyship,  in  appear- 
ance much  alarmed. 

'  Yes,  madam  ;  but  as  a  change  of  air  may 
be  of  service  to  me,  and  your  ladyship  ap- 
pears so  terrified  on  my  account,  1  shall  beg 


220  REBECCA. 

leave  to  retire  to  a  friend's  some  few  miles 
from  town.  1  shall  go  directly  after  break- 
fast, and  will  send  tomorrow  for  my  trunks.' 

'  You  do  not  mean  to  leave  us  1  hope.' 

'  Yes,  madam  ;  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
remain  longer  with  you.'  Lady  Winterlon 
burst  into  texrs. 

'  Nay,  Miss  Littleton,'  said  his  lordship, 
'  you  must  not  leave  us  ;  my  poor  Fanny  will 
break  her  heart.' 

All  to  no  purpose  was  it  for  the  lady  to 
weep  or  her  husband  entreat;  Rebecca  re- 
mained inexorable,  till  lord  Winterton  leav- 
ing them,  his  lady  earnestly  entreated  her 
to  forgive  what  was  past,  and  she  would  nev- 
er see  Savage  again. 

'Do  not  leave  me,  Rebecca,'  said  she, 
'you  are  my  guardian  angel;  without  you  I 
shall  be  inevitably  lost!' 

This  argument  prevailed,  and  Rebecca 
consented  to  stay,  in  hopes  of  drawing  her 
lady  from  her  unfortunate  attachment.  The 
winter  was  now  entirely  supplanted  by  the 
gay-robed  spring,  and  our  heroine  began  to 
sigh  for  reiirement,  silver  streams,  and  shady 
groves.  Lady  Winterton,  to  oblige  her,  pro- 
posed spending  a  few  weeks  at  Chcswick, 
where  they  had  an  elegant  seat. 

It  was  a  charming  evening  in  the  begin- 
ning  of  June;  the  ruddy  streaks  of  the  part- 
ing sunbeams  had  given  place  to  a  sober 
gray;  the  moon  with  silver  crescent  shed  a 


REBECCA.  221 

feeble  light,  and  stars,  by  imperceptible  de- 
grees, appeared  in  ihe  blue  expanse  ui  hea- 
ven till  all  was  one  continued  scene  of  radi- 
ant glory.  A  nightingale,  perched  on  a 
thorn,  was  tuning  her  melancholy  pipe,  and 
the  zephyrs  passed  gently  over  a  long  canal, 
wafting  on  their  wings  the  distant  sound  of 
the  tinkling  sheep-bell,  and  the  rustic  shep- 
herd's whistle. 

Rebecca  had  left  her  lady  in  an  alcove  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden,  and  wandered  in- 
to the  pleasure  ground.  The  beauty  of  the 
surrounding  scene  had  given  a  soft  serenity 
to  her  mind,  and  she  sat  down  to  indulge  re- 
flections which,  if  not  absolutely  pleasant, 
were  far  from  painful. 

She  had  not  sat  long  before  she  saw  two 
men  gliding  among  the  trees,  and  proceed- 
ing towards  the  garden.  At  first  she  felt 
rather  terrified,  but  the  idea  of  Savage  strik- 
ing her,  she  hastened  towards  the  place 
where  she  had  left  her  lady.  She  had  hard- 
ly got  half  way  before  she  felt  herself  seized 
by  a  person,  who  softly  bid  her  not  to  be 
alarmed,  he  only  meant  to  prevent  her  dis- 
turbing an  agreeable  tete-a-tete,  to  which  a 
friend  "of  his  had  been  invited,  and  which  he 
was  determined  should  not  be  interrupted 
by  her. 

Rebecca  trembled  excessively ;  for,  by 
the  voice,  and  what  she  could  discern  of  his 
19* 


222  REBECCA. 

features,  she  discovered  the  person  who  held 
her  to  be  no  other  than  lord  Ossiter. 

'Whoever  your  friend  is,'  said  she,  'he 
can  have  no  business  here.  Unhand  me. 
sir,  or  1  will  alarm  the  house.' 

'  You  must  cry  pretty  loud  then,  my  dear, 
for  you  are  a  good  distance  from  it;  but 
stay,  have  1  not  seen  your  face  before  ?  Yes, 


avens 


r 


by  he 

At  that  moment  a  loud  shriek  from  the 
alcove,  and  a  clashing  of  swords,  made  him 
relinquish  his  hold,  and  run  towards  the 
place  whence  the  sound  proceeded.  Rebec- 
ca followed  as  fast  as  her  trembling  limbs 
would  permit;  but  what  a  scene  presented 
itself  to  her  view  !  Savage  on  his  knees,  sup- 
porting the  bleeding  and  apparently  lifeless 
body  of  lady  Winterton,  and  Ossiter  strug- 
gling to  wrest  the  sword  from  her  lord,  who, 
foaming  with  rage,  threatened  instant  death 
to  the  betrayer  of  his  honor. 

'Infamous  wretch!'  said  the  enraged  hus- 
band, when  he  beheld  our  heroine,  'this  is 
your  doings,  you  contrived  and  winked  at 
their  meetings,  and  most  conveniently  left 
your  vile  friend  to  entertain  her  lover  while 
you  whiled  away  your  time  with  that  dis- 
grace to  nobility!  Begone;  leave  my  house 
this  night,  thou  pest  to  society!  I  have  long 
been  informed  of  your  scandalous  proceed- 
ings, but  would  not  believe  till  ocular  dem- 
onstration left  me  nothing  to  doubt." 


REBECCA.  223 

Terrified  and  distressed  as  Rebecca  was, 
she  could  not  but  wish  to  stay  to  afford  what 
relief  was  in  her  power  to  her  lady,  but  this 
was  denied  her.  She  had  assisted  Savage 
to  bathe  her  temples  with  hartshorn,  and 
saw  her  open  her  eyes,  when  the  servants 
entered,  took  her  in  their  arms,  and  bore 
her  to  the  house,  where  Rebecca  was  for- 
bade to  enter,  and  any  servant  who  should 
dare  to  afford  her  shelter,  threatened  with 
instant  dismission. 

'  What  now  is  to  become  of  me  V  said  she, 
sinking  on  the  ground  as  the  door  was  shut 
against  her;  'what  next  will  be  the  fate  of 
the  wretched  Rebecca  ?' 

'  Love,  affluence,  and  pleasure,'  said  lord 
Ossiter,  endeavoring  to  raise  her. 

'Say  rather  death  and  infamy,  my  lord  ; 
my  reputation  is  wounded,  my  peace  of  mind 
destroyed.  Oh,  that  my  heart  would  break, 
and  let  me  rest  forever!' 

'Rest  in  my  arms,'  said  he,  rudely  em- 
bracing her.     She  shrieked. 

'Forbear,  my  lord,'  said  Savage,  advan- 
cing, 'this  lady  has  been  the  friend  of  my 
adored, Fanny,  and  no  one  shall  insult  her 
with  impunity.' 

'Your  humble  servant,'  cried  Ossiter,  '  I 
understand  you,  and  have  done;  only  give 
me  leave  to  inform  you,  that  this  prettj'  im- 
maculate piece  of  prudery,  about  four  years 
since,  was  in  a  ready  furnished  house  of  my 


224  REBECCA. 

providing,  whence  she  thought  fit  to  elope, 
and  has,  J  make  no  doubt,  seen  a  great  deal 
of  life  since  that  period.1 

Rebecca  could  hear  no  more ;  a  sudden 
chilliness  ran  through  her  veins;  she  re- 
spired with  difficulty  ;  her  head  grew  giddy  ; 
and  she  sunk  into  insensibility.  When  she 
recovered,  recollection  retained  but  faint 
traces  of  the  past  scenes;  it  seemed  like  a 
disturbed  dream.  'Where  am  I  T  said  she. 
Lord  Ossiter  approached  the  bed-side.  '  You 
are  in  safety,  my  angel,' said  he,  'only  com- 
pose your«pirils,  and  nothing  shall  be  omit- 
ted that  can  make  you  happy.'  She  turned 
her  head  from  him,  wept,  but  could  not  an- 
swer. 

'You  must  not  disturb  her,'  said  a  medi- 
cal gentleman  who  had  been  called  in  ;  '  qui- 
et and  rest  are  absolutely  necessary  to  pre- 
serve her  life.' 

'  Exert  your  utmost  skill,  doctor,'  said  Os- 
siter, '  to  save  her,  and  we  will  be  guided  en- 
tirely by  your  directions/ 

'Then  leave  her  to  the  care  of  the  nurse 
tonight,  and  do  not  attempt  to  see  her  before 
noon  tomorrow.' 

Lord  Ossiter  kissed  her  hand,  bowed,  and 
retired. 

Rebecca  heard  the  door  shut ;  she  raised 
her  head  to  observe  the  doctor,  and  per- 
ceived, to  her  great  joy,  he  was  a  grave,  de- 
cent looking  man.     She  made  some  excuse 


REBECCA.  225 

to  send  the  nurse  out  of  the  room,  then  tak- 
ing both  the  doctor's  hands  in  hers,  cried, 
'Oh!  good  sir,  if  you  have  any  compassion 
in  your  nalure,  show  it  now  to  a  poor  dis- 
tressed orphan,  and  save  her.1 

'My  dear  child,'  said  he,  '  do  not  alarm 
yourself;  you  are  not  in  any  immediate 
danger.' 

'Oh!  sir,  you  mistake  me;  it  is  not  death 
I  fear,  it  is  dishonor.  Alas!  I  know  not 
where  I  am  ;  but  I  fear  entirely  in  the  pow- 
er of  a- man  who  will  sacrifice  me  to  his  un- 
hallowed passion.' 

'  Then  you  did  not  come  with  nim  volun- 
tarily?' 

'No!  no',  heaven  knows  I  did  not;  1  was 
in  a  state  of  insensibility.' 

An  interesting  conversation  now  ensued; 
the  doctor  was  convinced  of  Rebecca's  in- 
nocence, and  bribing  the  nurse  to  assist, 
about  twelve  o'clock  they  helped  the  poor 
sufferer  to  put  on  her  clothes,  supported  her 
down  stairs,  and  carried  her  in  triumph  to 
his  own  house. 

Though  lady  Winlcrton  had  solemnly  as- 
sured Rebecca  she  would  hold  no  further 
correspondence  with  Savage,  her  love  over- 
powered every  good  resolution,  and  she  had 
seen  him  several  times  previous  to  their  leav- 
ing London;  fur  what  man  of  gallantry  can 
refuse  the  request  of  the  woman  he  tenderly 
loves,   though   rigid   honor  bids  him  fly  her 


226  REBECCA. 

society  !  Fanny,  the  unfortunate  Fanny,  en- 
treated another  interview  ;  it  was  impossible 
to, avoid  it,  hut  each  one  was   to  be  the  last. 

Lord  Ossiter  was  by  no  means  the  bosom 
friend  of  Savage;  but  he  had,  by  accident, 
become  master  of  this  secret,  and  was,  there- 
fore, requested  to  accompany  him  to  Chcs- 
wick,  where  he  had  enjoyed  several  inter- 
views with  lady  Winterton  before  the  last 
fatal  one. 

Lord  Wintcrton's  valet  had  observed  his 
lady's  evening  walks,  and  made  the  impor- 
tant discovery  that  she  had  a  lover.  lie  in- 
formed his  lord  ;  from  that  moment  her  steps 
were  watched.  She  was  discovered  in  the 
alcove,  Savage  at  her  feet ;  her  cheek  rested 
on  his  forehead,  her  band  upon  Ins  shoulder, 
and  tears  were  streaming  from  her  eyes. 

'Turn,  villain, ,  said  lord  Winterton,  '  and 
defend  yourself,'  Savage  arose,  and  drew 
his  sword  ;  the  frantic  lady  threw  her  arms 
about  him,  and  received  her  husband's  sword 
in  her  own  bosom.  She  fell;  and  Ossiter  at 
that  moment  entering,  prevented  the  death 
of  her  lover,  who  would  certainly  have  fal- 
len a  victim  to  the  husband's  rage,  had  not 
timely  assistance  arrived. 

The,,  gentle,  innocent  Rebecca,  was  in* 
volved  in  her  lady's  crime;  she  was  sup- 
posed accessary  to  the  interviews,  and  for- 
bade to  enter  the  house,  when  she  fainted  as 
was  mentioned  above.     Ossiter  represented 


REBECCA  227 

her  to  Savage  as  a  woman  of  very  light  char- 
acter; and  he,  unwilling  to  quit  a  place 
where  he  might  hope  to  hear  whether  his 
Fanny  still  lived,  suffered  that  designing  no- 
bleman to  carry  her  to  the  chaise  which 
waited  for  them,  and  convey  her  to  the  near- 
est inn.  Here  he  ordered  her  to  be  put  to 
bed  ;  sent  for  a  doctor,  and  having  strongly 
recommended  her  to  his  care,  retired,  after 
a  slight  supper,  to  bed,  rejoicing  in  an  acci- 
dent which  had  again  put  in  his  power  a  wo- 
man whom,  though  he  had  given  up  all 
thoughts  of  gaining,  he  could  never  entirely 
forget. 

How  great  then  was  his  surprise  when  in- 
quiring for  her  the  next  morning,  he  found 
doctor,  nurse  and  patient,  all  absconded. — 
He  repaired  to  the  doctor's  house,  but  could 
not  obtain  admittance.  He  cursed  the  med- 
dling fellow  in  his  heart,  vowed  revenge  on 
Rebecca,  and  set  off  for  London. 

In  the  regular,  cheerful  family  of  Dr  Ry- 
land  our  heroine  soon  recovered  her  health, 
and,  in  a  great  measure,  her  spirits.  She 
made  inquiry  concerning  the  fate  of  her  la- 
dy, and  learned  that,  though  she  had  recov- 
ered from  her  wound,  she  labored  under  a 
very  ill  state  of  health,  which,  they  feared 
would  terminate  in  a  decline.  Rebecca 
gave  a  sigh  to  her  hard  fate,  wished  she 
might  conquer  her  passion,  and  be  prepared 


220  REBECCA. 

for  thai  peace  in  another  world  she  had  fail- 
ed of  finding  in  this. 

Dr  Ryland  was  a  truly  benevolent  man, 
but  he  had  a  large  family,  and  no  great  de- 
gree of  practice,  it  was  therefore  not  to  be 
expected  that  our  heroine  could  remain  with 
them  long,  and  in  the  poor  situation  she 
then  was,  without  money  or  clothes,  she 
could  not  think  of  returning  to  incumber 
Mrs  Harris.  She  had  informed  Mrs  Ry- 
land that  she  wished  to  get  a  place  in  some 
genteel  family,  where  she  could  render  her- 
self useful  without  much  hard  labor;  that 
lady  inquired  among  her  friends,  and  learn- 
ed that  the  lady  of  a  neighboring  justice 
wanted  a  young  person  to  get  up  her  small 
linen,  make  her  caps,  bonnets,  gowns,  &c. 
and  occasionally  to  take  the  care  of  the  fam- 
ily when  the  lady  was  out.  Rebecca  joy- 
fully waited  on  Mrs  Penure;  the  kind  Mrs 
Ryland  accompanied  her,  gave  her  such  a 
character  as  she  deserved,  and  had  the 
pleasure  to  find  she  entirely  suited  the  la- 
dy's plan.  The  salary  was  but  small,  but 
Rebecca  had  but  few  wants  to  supply;  to 
be  neat  was  now  all  she  required,  indeed  it 
was  all  she  could  henceforth  expect.  The 
doctor  advanced  a  few  guineas  to  get  her  a 
change  of  clothes,  for  she  had  sent  repeat- 
edly without  effect  for  her  trunk  from  lord 
Winterlon1s;  and  in  the  course  of  a  week 
from  the  time  she  waited  on  the  ladv,  Re- 


REBECCA.  229 

becca  became  an  inmate  in  the  family  of  the 
worshipful  justice  Penure. 

Jacob  Penure  had,  from  a  very  low  sta- 
tion in  a  reputable  tradesman's  family  raised 
himself,  by  indefatigable  industry,  to  the 
confidence  of  his  master,  and  a  share  in  his 
business,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three.  The 
fair  Miss  Abigail  Prune,  who  had,  in  the 
younger  part  of  her  life,  served  several  la- 
dies in  the  quality  of  waiting-woman,  but 
who  now  kept  her  brother's  house,  cast  on 
him  the  eyes  of  affection.  Miss  Abigail 
was,  to  be  sure,  rather  past  her  prime,  hav- 
ing seen  forty  seasons  revolve  and  noted 
their  various  change,  without  the  least  hope 
of  ever  changing  her  own  maidenly  condi- 
tion to  the  more  honorable  one  of  wife. 

Mr  Jacob  was  a  comely  young  man.  She 
reviewed  her  own  countenance  in  the  glass; 
she  could  not  perceive  the  traces  made  by 
the  hand  of  time.  She  was  above  the  mid- 
dle size,  extremely  thin,  and  had  a  shape, 
not  'small  by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less;' 
but  so  exactly  straight,  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  perceive  any  difference  between  the 
bottomland  the  top;  and  instead  of  that  ro- 
tundity, which  constitutes  elegance  in  the 
form  of  a  woman,  her  waist  was  as  perfect- 
ly flat  as  if  she  had  been  pressed  between 
two  boards,  Her  arms  were  long;  her 
hands  large,  hard,  and  bony ;  her  face  was 
round,  but  it  was  that  kind  of  roundness  that 
20 


230  REBECCA. 

expresses  insignificance.  The  small  remains 
of  teeth  she  possessed  might  be  termed  beau- 
tiful in  some  parts  of  the  world,  for  they 
were  of  a  jetty  hue;  and  from  her  hollow 
sockets,  over  which  could  be  seen  scarcely 
the  trace  of  brows,  twinkled  two  extremely 
small  black  eyes.  The  tip  of  her  diminu- 
tive nose  was  elevated  ;  and  her  complexion 
might  have  rivaled  the  tints  of  the  most 
beautiful  orange  lily. 

Such  was  the  person  of  Miss  Abigail. — 
We  will  leave  her  accomplishments  and  tem- 
per to  speak  for  themselves. 

Mr  Jacob  Penure  knew  his  own  interest 
too  well  to  think  of  slighting  the  maiden's 
advances.  She  had  five  hundred  pounds  in 
her  own  possession,  the  accumulated  savings 
of  nearly  twenty  years'  servitude;  besides, 
her  brother  had  no  children,  and  he  had 
much  money.  Mr  Prune  was  far  from  dis- 
pleased with  his  sister's  choice.  Penure 
was  an  attentive,  industrious  young  man  ;  he 
made  him  equal  partner  with  himself,  and  in 
about  fifteen  years  they  found  themselves  in 
possession  of  a  very  handsome  fortune.  At 
this  time  the  old  gentleman  died.  All  his 
possessions  devolved  to  his  sister,  and  Pen- 
ure resolved,  though  much  against  his  wife's 
opinion,  to  leave  trade  and  retire  into  the 
country.  Here  he  was  chosen  justice  of  the 
peace,  and  by  his  integrity  and  gentleness 
in  the  execution  of  his  office,  gained  the  love 


REBECCA.  231 

of  all  who  knew  him.  Ife  was  a  humane, 
friendly  character;  but  he  stood  in  fear  of 
his  wife. 

The  morning  after  Rebecca's  arrival,  the 
breakfast  things  removed  (for  she  was  to  eat 
at  their  table)  Mrs  Penure  desired  our  hero- 
ine to  accompany  her  up  stairs. 

'I  am  mighty  glad,'  said  the  lady,  sitting 
down  by  a  large  old  fashioned  case  of  draw- 
ers, and  taking  an  enormous  bunch  of  keys 
from  her  pocket,  1 1  am  mighty  glad  to  have 
met  with  a  young  person  like  you,  who  can 
make  me  up  a  few  smart  things.  I  love  to 
be  genteel,  and  wear  as  good  things  as  my 
neighbors;  but  really  it  is  so  expensive  to 
have  any  thing  done  at  the  milliner's,  and  if 
one  gets  any  journey-women  to  come  home, 
they  always  ask  for  as  much  again  stuff  as 
they  want,  and  steal  the  half  of  it.  Now  1 
do  hate  to  be  cheated  ;  I  don*!  mind  giving 
away  a  bit  of  riband  or  gauze  that  is  left; 
but  it  provokes  me  to  have  it  taken  away  in 
a  sly  manner.' 

During  this  harangue,  she  had  pulled  from 
her  drawers  an  immense  quantity  of  yellow 
washed  gauze,  old  muslin,  and  thread  lace, 
that  bore  the  strongest  marks  of  antiquity. 
She  admired  the  cap  our  heroine  had  on, 
and  wished  to  have  one  made  like  it.  But 
among  the  medley  of  trumpery  she  had  dis- 
played, Rebecca  could  not  select  any  thing 
Jit  for   the   purpose;   besides,  or  heroine's 


232  REBECCA. 

head,  though  neat  and  plain,  still  retained 
an  air  of  fashion.  Mrs  Penurc's  lank  black 
hair  was  combed  in  the  most  exact  manner 
over  a  roll,  and  drawn  up  as  tight  behind  as 
possible.  How  then  could  the  same  cap 
suit  them  both  ?  However,  an  attempt  must 
be  made.  The  lady  assured  Rebecca  that 
her  lace,  muslin,  &c.  were  very  valuable, 
and  insisted  on  not  only  one,  but  several 
caps  being  produced  from  those  materials; 
at  the  same  time  she  opened  a  cabinet  in 
which  were  arranged,  rolled  in  the  neatest 
manner  round  cards,  every  riband  she  had 
ever  had  in  her  possession.  '  See,  young 
woman,"1  said  she,  exultingly,  'here  are  va- 
riety of  ribands;  take  your  choice;  let  my 
caps  be  trimmed  handsomely,  but  don't  let 
any  be  wasted  ;  I  hate  waste,  so,  if  you  can 
avoid  it,  don't  cut  them.'  Rebecca  could 
not  suppress  a  smile  at  the  solemn  manner 
in  which  this  treasury  of  old  fashioned,  dirty  > 
faded  ribands,  was  committed  to  her  charge. 
However,  she  promised  to  exert  her  abili- 
ties to  please,  and  was  beginning  to  form  a 
cap,  but  her  mistress  had  not  yet  clone  with 
her.  '  I  suppose,'  said  she,  'you  will  want 
linings  and  wire;  besides,  you  will  not  be 
all  day  making  two  or  three  caps.  I  want 
a  bonnet  or  two  made,  and  my  best  cloak 
fresh  trimmed.' 

'  I  am   afraid  1  shall  not  be   able  to  do  all 
in  one  day,  madam.' 


REBECCA.  233 

'  Well,  you*  must  do  as  much  as  you  can, 
child;  don't  be  idle,  1  hate  idle  people.  I 
hope  you  don't  love  reading  V 

Rebecca  hesitated;  she  would  not  utter  a 
falsehood.  'I  think  it  an  agreeable  amuse- 
ment; but  I  will  not  neglect  my  business.' 

'No,  indeed,  I  hope  not;  reading  is  the 
ruination  of  all  young  people.  I  never  read 
a  book  in  my  life  but  the  Bible  and  the 
Housekeeper's  Assistant.  1  was  continual- 
ly studying  to  make  the  most  of  my  time, 
and  how  to  save  or  earn  a  penny.' 

A  fresh  cargo  was  now  displayed  to  the 
wondering  eyes  of  Rebecca,  of  old  mode, 
white  sarcenet,  skeleton  wires,  and  blond 
lace,  out  of  which  she  was  desired  to  pro- 
duce a  smart  bonnet  or  two. 

'  It  is  impossible,  madam,'  said  she, '  utter- 
ly impossible;  the  bonnets  worn  now  are  so 
different  from  what  were  worn  ten  years 
since.  You  must,  indeed,  madam,  afford 
yourself  new  materials  to  make  a  genteel 
bonnet.'  Her  aguments  were  vain;  all  she 
could  obtain  was  a  yard  of  mode,  and  four 
yards  of  riband,  while  Mrs  Penure  declared 
she  was  leading  her  to  extravagance,  and 
that  the  bonnet  must  last  her  seven  years. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  a  correct  idea  of 
our  heroine's  sensations,  when  this  misera- 
ble woman,  out  of  ostentation,  displayed  to 
her  the  treasures  of  her  wardrobe.  Here 
were  gowns,  petticoats,  nay,  even  stockings 
20* 


234  REBECCA. 

and  linen  that  she  could  no  longer  mend  op 
wear,  carefully  laid  by !  Her  narrow  soul 
could  not  even  expand  itself,  to  give  to  oth- 
ers  what  she  could  no  longer  use  herself.— 
The  very  wire  that  came  out  of  old  caps, 
was  twisted  up,  and  kept  in  a  box  devoted 
to  that  purpose;  hats  that  bore  the  date  of' 
twenty  years  by  their  fashion;  old  stays, 
shoes  and  gloves,  all  were  preserved,  though 
scarcely  worth  acceptance  by  the  poorest 
person. 

Her  housekeeping  was  of  a  piece  with  the 
rest;  every  thing  was  under  lock  and  key; 
bread  and  small  beer  were  the  only  things 
to  which  the  servants  had  free  access.  Her 
table,  it  is  true,  was  well  supplied;  but  it 
was  ostentation,  not  liberality,  occasioned  it. 
Her  female  visiters  were  seldom  asked  to 
take  more  than  one  glass  of  wine  after  din- 
ner; for  when  she  had  taken  half  a  glass 
herself,  she  would  return  the  stopper  to  the 
decanter  and  cry,  'I  never  allow  myself 
more.'  This  was  the  signal,  and  the  wine 
was  immediately  removed,  when  she  would 
say,  '  But,  perhaps,  ma'am,  you  would  have 
liked  another  glass?' 

It  could  not  be  expected,  in  such  a  fam- 
ily, our  heroine  would  be  happy;  she  en- 
deavored to  be  content,  but  the  effort  was 
vain.  Mr  Penure  saw  she  was  far  superior 
to  the  station  she  was  in;  he  pitied  her,  but 
he  could  do  no  more  without  incurring  the 


REBECCA.  235 

anger  of  a  woman  whom  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  obey,  and  dreaded  to  offend. 

It  happened  one  afternoon,  when  his  lady 
was  gone  to  pay  a  visit  of  ceremony  (a  thing 
•not  very  customary  with  him)  the  justice 
took  his  tea  at  home.  Rebecca  was  sum- 
moned to  the  parlor  to  make  it;  but,  alas! 
Rebecca  could  produce  only  a  tea-spoonful 
of  black  tea,  and  a  very  small  quantity  of 
sugar. 

'  Why,  sure  child,  you  are  not  allowanced 
iu  tea  and  sugar?*  said  he,  with  a  look  of 
displeasure. 

'  There  is  a  plenty  for  me,  sir,'  said  she, 
affecting  a  smile,  'and — ' 

'  By  heavens !'  said  he,  stamping  with  pas- 
sion, 'you  shall  make  no  excuse  for  her; 
confound  the  stingy  narrow-hearted — ' 

'  Hold,  sir,  I  beseech  you,'  cried  she, '  you 
quite  terrify  me!' 

'  I  am  sorry  for  it,  child,'  said  he ;  '  but  to 
think  that  my  wife  should  dare  treat  you 
thus,  t/ou,  who  are  every  way  her  superior, 
and  who,  if  I  mistake  not,  was  born  to  be 
served  by  others,  not  to  be  a  servant  your- 
self!\ 

'  You  are  mistaken,  sir,'  said  our  heroine, 
her  eyes  falling  as  she  spoke,  'indeed,  you 
are  mistaken.  I  am  a  poor  orphan,  without 
friends  or  connexions,  and  have  only  to  la- 
ment that  my  education  has  been  superior  to 
my  fate.    My  birth  was  humble,  and,  I  trust, 


236  REBECCA. 

my  heart  is  humble;  but  my  feelings  arc 
sometimes  more  than  I  can  bear.' 

The  justice  rang  the  bell;  he  wished  to 
hide  his  emotions. — 'Get  me  some  tea  and 
sugar,'  said  he,  giving  half  a  guinea  to  a  ser- 
vant who  entered.  He  then  drew  his  chair 
toward  our  heroine,  took  one  of  her  hands 
and  told  her,  he  felt  inclined  to  prove  him- 
self  her  friend,  if  she  would  direct  him  by 
what  means  to  do  it. 

'  Be  not  alarmed,  my  lovely  girl,'  said  he, 
'  though  my  eyes  acknowledge  you  beauti- 
ful, my  heart  only  feels  for  you  as  for  a  sis- 
ter or  a  daughter.  If  j'ou  can  venture  to 
make  me  your  friend,  confide  in  me,  and 
trust  to  my  honest  intention ;  1  will  serve 
you  to  the  utmost  of  my  power.' 

During  tea  Rebecca  had  disclosed  to  her 
master  the  chief  incidents  of  her  life,  veiling 
only  those  which  concerned  sir  George. — 
Time  had  passed  unobserved.  The  justice 
had  drawn  forth  his  purse,  and  putting  tpn 
guineas  into  the  hand  of  Rebecca,  entreated 
her  to  accept  them  as  the  gift  of  a  father. — 
She  strenuously  opposed  the  liberal  dona- 
tion. He  had  taken  her  hand,  and  closing 
it  with  the  money  within  it,  held  it  while  he 
was  speaking,  when  the  door  opened  and 
Mrs  Penure  stood  before  them.  The  justice 
started,  and  dropped  Rebecca's  hand.  The 
money  fell  to  the  floor. 

The  rage  of  Mrs  Penure  inflamed  her  fea- 


REBECCA.  237 

lures,  and  shot  from  her  eyes  ;  she  could 
not  speak,  but  shrieking  in  a  terrific  man- 
ner, flew  at  Rebecca,  and  would  have  made 
her  feel  the  weight  of  her  tremendous  hand, 
had  not  her  husband  stepped  between  them. 
She  recovered  her  speech;  then  poured  a 
volley  of  reproaches  upon  him. 

'Profligate  wretch!'  said  she,  'vile,  un- 
generous villain!  Is  it  thus  my  tenderness 
and  condescension  in  making  you  my  hus- 
band is  repaid?  Is  my  money  to  be  squan- 
dered on  your  painted  Jezebels,  that  you 
bring  into  my  house  to  dishonor  me?  Oh! 
my  unfortunate  lot!  Must  I  be  beggared  by 
an  ungrateful  wretch?  Yes;  I  see  all  my 
property  will  be  wasted,  and  I  shall  go  to 
the  workhouse.'  Here  her  tears  broke  out, 
and,  what  with  sobbing  and  screaming,  she 
became  unintelligible.  Rebecca  would  not 
sloop  to  vindicate  herself.  She  retired  to 
her  room  in  silence,  and  6oon  after  received 
a  message  from  her  mistress  lo  leave  the 
house,  who,  at  the  same  time,  made  her  ill 
behavior  a  plea  for  not  paying  her  wages, 
though  she  had  been  in  the  family  above 
four  months.  As  she  was  going  out  at  the 
gale  to  seek  the  London  coach  one  of  the 
servants  put  a  folded  paper  into  her  hand. 
On  opening  it  she  saw  not  the  ten  guineas, 
but  a  ten  pound  note  with  these  words: 

'  I  know  you  have  not  been  paid  ;  accept 
this  as  a  small  return  for  your  services. — 


230  REBECCA. 

God  bless  you,  and  make  your  happiness 
equal  to  your  desert! 

J.     PENURE.' 

Rebecca  was  grateful  for  this  little  sup- 
ply of  cash,  for  she  was  almost  entirely  des- 
titute, and  stepping  into  the  stage,  proceed- 
ed to  London. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  coach  sat  Rebecca  down  in  Piccadil- 
ly ;  it  was  quite  dark.  She  thought  it  was 
best  to  go  immediately  to  Mrs  Harris's,  and 
determined  to  take  a  coach  for  that  purpose. 
As  she  stood  waiting  for  her  trunk  to  be 
taken  from  the  boot,  two  genteel  young  men 
passed  her,  one  of  whom  turning  round,  and 
regarding  he  r  attentively,  said, '  It  is  her,  by 
heavens  !'  and" flew  towards  her.  Rebecca 
turned  suddenly  round,  and  discovered  the 
features  of  sir  George  Worthy. 

'My  angelic  Rebecca!'  said  he,  folding 
her  in  his  arms,  regardless  of  the  place 
where  they  stood,  (  do  1  once  more  behold 
you  ?  Do  I,  indeed,  clasp  you  to  my  breast, 
or  is  it  an  illusion?' 

'Sir  George,'  said  she,  struggling  to  free 
herself  from  his   embrace,  'I  rejoice  to  sec 


REBECCA,  239 

you   well;  but  know  not  what  I  have  done 
to  deserve  this  insult.' 

'Who  shall  dare  insult  you,  my  adorable 
girl !  I  have  found  you  after  such  a  long  sep- 
aration, when  1  thought  you  lost  forever, 
and  we  will  never  part  again.' 

'For  heaven's  sake  let  me  go,  sir  George! 
Why  am  I  thus  detained?  Are  you  not  mar- 
ried V 

By  this  time  a  crowd  had  gathered  round 
them.  An  old  sailor  seeing  a  woman  in  dis- 
tress, rushed  forward,  and  struck  sir  George 
a  blow  that  made  him  relinquish  his  hold. 
She  sprang  from  him,  and  forgetful  of  her 
trunk,  ran  hastily  down  St  James  Street. — 
When  she  had  reached  the  bottom  she  stop- 
ped to  recover  breath,  and  then  proceeded 
slowly  down  Pali-Mall. 

A  poor,  miserable  looking  object,  whose 
emaciated  frame  was  but  thinly  sheltered 
by  a  tattered  mode  cloak  (for  gown  she  had 
none)  from  the  nocturnal  damps,  supporting 
her  feeble  steps  by  holding  by  the  iron  rails 
before  one  of  the  houses,  in  a  weak,  tremu- 
lous voice  entreated  charity. 

Rebecca  never  turned  aside  from  the  sup- 
plications of  misery.  She  stopped  and  put 
her  hand  in  her  pocket. 

They  stood  immediately  under  two  large 
lamps. 

'  Merciful  heaven  !'  cried  the  poor  mendi 
cant,  laying  her  cold  hand  on  the  one  R  x 


240  REBECCA. 

becca  had  extended  with  relief,  and  gazing 
ardently  at  her,  'Rebecca!  my  child!  do 
you  not  know  me?' 

Our  heroine  looked  intently  on  the  pale 
visage  of  the  object  before  her;  misery  and 
sickness  had  somewhat  alterrd  it,  but  she 
saw  it  was  her  mother.  The  feelings  of  a 
daughter  rushed  impetuously  over  her  heart. 
She  sunk  on  her  kness  upon  the  pavement, 
and  clasping  her  parent  in  her  arms  exclaim- 
ed, 'Oh,  my  mother!  my  dear  disiressed 
mother!'  and  bur&t  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

When  the  tumult  of  their  feelings  was  sub- 
sided, Rebecca  thought  of  calling  a  coach, 
but  where  were  they  to  drive!  She  could 
not  think  of  taking  her  mother  to  Mrs  Har- 
ris's; they,  therefore,  drove  to  a  street  in 
Westminster,  where  Mrs  Serle  had  lodged, 
and  were  fortunate  enough  to  find  an  apart- 
ment empty.  Here  their  mutual  embraces 
and  endearments  were  again  renewed.  Re- 
becca wept  for  joy  of  having  found  a  parent 
whose  future  life  she  would  endeavor  to  ren- 
der happy,  and  Mrs  Serle  shed  tears  of  con- 
trition for  having  once  treated  unworthily 
so  good  a  daughter. 

She  informed  Rebecca  that  after  they  had 
left  Lincolnshire,   Serle  commenced  game- 
ster, sharper,   and  swindler;  that   her   little 
boy  died  in  infancy;  that  Serle's  daughter 
hwent  on  the  town,  and  became  an  abandon- 

1  profligate;  and  that  at  last  overwhelmed 


REBECCA.  241 

with  poverty  and  disgrace,  Serle  himself  had 
died  in  the  FlectPrison,  leaving  her  neither 
clothes,  money,  or  friends.  Her  annuity 
had  been  long  since  sold,  and  she  must  have 
perished,  had  she  not  providentially  met 
with  her  daughter. 

When  Rebecca  viewed  her  mother's  tat- 
tered garments,  and  thought  of  getting  her 
more  comfortable  clothing,  her  own  trunk 
recurred  to  her  memory.  '  1  hope  it  is  not 
lost,'  said  she, 'and  it  is  lucky  what  little 
money  1  possess  is  in  my  pocket.' 

Her  mother  informed  her  that  there  was 
some  decent  apparel  at  a  pawn-broker's  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  Rebecca,  having  re- 
ceived instructions  how  to  proceed,  went  out 
in  order  to  get  it;  but  what  was  her  aston- 
ishment, on  opening  the  parcel  when  she 
had  brought  it  home,  to  see  a  gown  made  of 
a  piece  of  Indian  chintz,  which  she  remem- 
bered to  have  had  in  her  trunk  when  it  was 
sent  into  Lincolnshire,  with  a  muslin  apron 
and  several  other  things  which  she  equally 
knew  to  be  her  own. 

'Gracious  heaven  !'  said  she,  dropping  the 
parcel  from  her  hands,  and  fixing  her  eyes 
on  her  tnother. 

'What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?'  said  Mrs 
Serle;  'that  was  a  gown  given  me  by  poor 
Serle;  it  had  been  bought  for  his  first  wife.' 

'It  was  mine,'  said  Rebecca,  in  a  firm 
voice:  'if  he  told  you  it  was  his.  he  told  a. 
31 


242  REBECCA. 

falsehood;  it  was  in  the  trunk  1  lost  four 
years  ago.' 

An  explanation  now  took  place,  which 
convinced  Mrs  Serle  what  a  villain  she  had 
chosen  to  succeed  the  worthy  Mr  Littleton  ; 
but  our  heroine  would  not  suffer  her  to  make 
any  painful  retrospects,  or  to  accuse  herself, 
she  poured  the  sweet  balm  of  affectionate 
consolation  into  the  bosom  of  her  mother. 
She  forgot  her  own  sorrows,  and  seemed  to 
have  no  wish  but  to  render  her  parent  the 
like  forgetful  of  every  past  disagreeable  oc- 
currence. 

The  next  morning  she  went  to  the  house 
where  the  stage  had  stopped  in  Piccadilly, 
to  inquire  for  her  trunk. 

'The  old  gentleman  took  it  away  with 
him,1  said  one  of  the  waiters,  'and  paid  all 
expenses;'  for  Rebecca,  in  her  fright  the 
preceding  night,  had  forgot  to  pay  her  fare 
to  town. 

'  What  old  gentleman  V  said  she,  surprised. 

'Why,  the  old  gentleman  who  knocked 
the  young  man  down  that  was  so  rude  to 
you.  He  read  the  directions  on  the  trunk 
when  it  was  taken  from  the  boot,  swore  he 
was  your  uncle,  and  insisted  on  having  it. — 
As  he  offered  to  pay  all  expenses  the  coach- 
man did  not  refuse,  and  both  he  and  the 
young  man  went  off  together  to  search  fur 
you,  but  returned  in  about  an  hour,  and  left 
word  if  you  should  call  this  morning,  for  mf 


REBECCA.  24-3 

to  lull  you,  you  might  hear  of  your  trunk  at 
No.  46  Bedford-Squarr.' 

'That  is  lord  Gssiler's,'  said  she,  scarcely 
able  to  respire. 

'  And  moreover,'  said  the  man,  '  the  young 
gentleman  told  me,  if  1  could  find  where  you 
was  gone,  or  could  bring  him  to  a  sight  of 
you,  he  would  give  me  ten  guineas,  and  so, 
seeing  as  how  you  are  here,  we  hud  better 
take  a  coach  and  go  together.' 

'No,1  said  she,  struggling  to  suppress  her 
emotions,  'no,  I  cannot  go  just  now;  in  the 
afternoon  it  will  be  more  convenient.  I  will 
just  step  back  to  my  lodgings,  and  return  to 
you  again  by  two  o'clock." 

The  man  was  satisfied.  Rebecca  tripped 
hastily  out  of  the  house,  called  a  coach,  and 
drove  home.  During  her  little  ride,  her 
mind  dwelt  on  the  singularity  of  the  circum- 
stance. She  had  just  heard  that  the  man, 
who  rescued  her  from  sir  George's  insults, 
had  gone  away  with  him,  had  taken  her 
trunk,  and  directed  her  to  find  it  at  lord  Os- 
siter's.  It  was  an  inexplicable  riddle  ;  he 
had  called  himself  her  uncle,  but  she  knew 
she  had  but  one  uncle,  and  he  was  abroad 
in  the  navy.  She  was  certainly  fortunate 
in  escaping  a  snare,  which  she  had  no  doubt 
was  intended  to  trepan  her.  Lord  Ossiter 
had,  perhaps,  represented  her  to  sir  George 
as  an  abandoned  creature,  devoid  of  virtue 
or  principle;   and  that  gentleman,  once  so 


244  REBECCA. 

esteemed,  so  respected,  was  now  considered 
as  one  who,  believing  her  lost  to  honor, 
would  join  his  lordship  in  any  stratagem  to 
decoy  her  into  his  power. 

Full  of  these  ideas,  she  told  her  mother 
she  would  immediately  remove  from  the 
apartments  she  then  occupied,  fearing  she 
might  have  been  watched  home,  and  sir 
George  would  be  directed  where  to  find  her. 

'Alas!  my  dear  mother,'  said  she,  1 1  am 
sensible  of  my  own  weakness.  1  hope  I  love 
virtue  as  well  as  women  ought;  but  1  know 
I  love  sir  George,  and  though  he  is  the  hus- 
band of  another;  though  reason,  religion, 
honor,  all  plead  against  my  passion,  still, 
still  it  is  so  engraven  on  my  heart,  that,  to 
eradicate  it,  1  feel  it  totally  impossible.  Can 
I  then  answer  for  my  own  fortitude?  I  fear 
not.  I  might  sink  under  powerful  tempta- 
tions ;  let  me  then  fulfil  my  duty  and  avoid 
them.' 

Her  mother  approved  and  strengthened 
these  resolutions;  and,  having  but  few  things 
to  put  together,  in  less  than  two  hours  they 
were  in  new  lodgings  near  Mill  bank,  West- 
minster. Here  Rebecca  sunk  under  fatigue 
of  body,  and  agitation  of  mind  she  had  un- 
dergone, and  a  fever  ensued,  which  brought 
her  almost  to  the  grave.  The  strength  of  a 
good  constitution  at  length  combalted  the  vi- 
olence of  the  disorder,  and  she  began  to  re- 
cover her  strength,   when   her.  mother  was 


REBECCA  -245 

attacked  with  one  more  alarming;  this  was 
the  small-pox,  which,  to  a  person  of  her  age, 
was  expected  to  be  fatal. 

Ten  pounds  was  all  the  worldly  wealth 
Rebecca  possessed  when  she  met  hej"  moth- 
er; but  ten  pounds  in  a  house  of  sickness 
would  last  but  a  short  time  ;  she,  therefore, 
on  examining  the  contents  of  her  purse  when 
her  mother  sickened,  found  it  contained  but 
fifteen  shillings,  and  there  was  a  doctor's  bill 
to  pay.  It  was  also  necessary  his  atten- 
dance should  be  continued  to  Mrs  Serle,  her 
life  being  in  imminent  danger.  During  the 
first  ten  days  of  her  mother's  illness,  Rebec- 
ca hardly  left  her  side,  denying  herself  al- 
most the  necessaries  of  life  in  order  to  make 
the  most  of  her  little  store;  but  on  the  four- 
teenth day  she  was  pronounced  out  of  dan- 
ger, and  that  good  nursing  and  nourishing 
food  was  all  that  was  necessary  to  her  res- 
toration. 

'  Alas  !'  said  Rebecca,  '  I  have  no  possible 
means  of  procuring  those  necessary  com- 
forts.' She  was  stooping  as  she  spokr\  to 
take  some  gruel  from  the  fire,  the  pin  of  her 
handkerchief  dropped  out  and  the  picture  of 
lady*  Mary  swung  forward  against  her  hand. 

Rebecca  gazed  at  it  mournfully.  '  True,' 
said  she,  'it  is  set  in  gold,  and  might  afford 
a  temporary  supply;  but,  then  is  it  not  the 
portrait  of  my  adored  benefactress?  And 
does  it  not  also  contain  the  semblance  of  the 
21* 


246  REBECCA. 

only  man  1  ever  did  or  ever  can  love  ?  But. 
alas!  what  right  have  1  to  talk  of  love  ?  Is 
he  not  already  married?  And  were  he  not, 
have  I  not  given  a  solemn  vow  never  to 
listen  to  his  addresses?  Foolish,  foolish  Re- 
becca !  why  dost  thou  nourish  a  passion  that 
must  be  forever  hopeless!' 

She  was  returning  the  picture  to  her  bo- 
som, when  it  struck  her  that  she  might,  per- 
haps, get  the  miniatures  carefully  taken  out, 
and  dispose  of  the  gold  in  which  they  were 
set.  '  If  so,'  said  she,  '  I  may  comfort  my 
mother,  and  yet  preserve  the  respect  due  tu 
the  portrait  of  lady  Mary.' 

Rebecca  was  so  pleased  with  the  project 
of  raising  a  supply  of  money  from  the  gold, 
that  she  told  her  mother  she  would  go  out 
for  half  an  hour  and  breathe  the  fresh  air, 
as  she  found  the  confinement  she  had  suffer- 
ed rather  impeded  her  returning  strength. 
When  she  was  out  she  thought,  by  extending 
her  walk,  she  should  feel  herself  refreshed  ; 
she  therefore  crossed  the  Park,  and  going 
out  at  Spring-Garden  gate,  stopped  at  an  em- 
inent goldsmith's  in  Cockspur  Street,  and 
requested  him  to  take  the  pictures  carefully 
out  and  purchase  the  setting.  The  man  had 
just  taken  it  in  his  hand,  and  was  admiring 
the  neatness  of  the  workmanship,  and  the 
curious  contrivance  of  the  spring,  when  a 
'chariot  stopped  at  the  door,  and  a  beautiful 
,young  lady  immediately  entered.    The  mas- 


REBECCA.  247 

icr  of  the  shop  held  the  picture  open  in  his 
hand,  while  he  received  the  lady's  orders 
concerning  a  pair  of  bracelets.  The  por- 
trait caught  her  eye:  'Bless  me,'  said  she, 
'pray  whose  is  it?  It  is  so  like  a  person 
whom  1  know.' 

'  It  belongs  to  this  young  woman,  madam  ; 
she  wishes  to  sell  the  gold  without  the  pic- 
tures.' 

The  lady  had  not  before  observed  Re- 
becca;  but  now  her  pale,  but  beautiful,  in- 
teresting countenance  struck  her. 

'It  is  a  pity  to  have  them  unset,'  said  she, 
'  will  you  part  with  it  altogether?  1  will  give 
you  twice  the  value  of  the  gold.' 

'J  cannot,  indeed,  part  with  the  portraits, 
madam  ;  one  is  a  much  valued  friend,  long 
since  dead,  and  the  other——'  A  pale  ver- 
milion crossed  her  cheek,  and  she  hesitated. 

'  Aye,  that  other,'  said  the  lady  ;  '  1  never 
saw  any  thing  more  like  than  that  is  to  a 
particular  friend  of  mine;  and  even  the  fea- 
tures of  the  lady  seem  familiar  to  me.' 

'  Will  you  buy  the  gold,  sir  ?'  said  Rebecca. 

'  No,'  cried  the  lady,  '  he  shall  not  buy  it. 
If  you  will  not  part  with  it  altogether  to  me 
for  twice  its  value,  I  am  certain,  (pardon  the 
remark,)  but  one  motive  could  lead  you  to 
wish  to  dispose  of  the  setting.'  As  she  was 
speaking,  she  had  taken  several  guineas  out 
of  her  purse,  and  wrapped  them  in  paper. — 
kYou   shall  call   upon  me,  if  you  please,  to- 


248  REBECCA 

morrow  morning,'  continued  she,  presenting 
our  heroine  a  card,  under  which  she  slipped 
into  her  hand  the  paper  with  the  money, 
and,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  trip- 

5>ed  out  of  the  shop.  Rebecca  was  motion- 
ess;  nor  did  she  think  of  looking  at  the 
card,  till  the  master  of  the  shop  returned 
from  seeing  the  lady  to  her  carriage. 

'1  am  glad  you  were  so  lucky,'  said  he, 
'as  to  excite  the  notice  of  that  lady;  she  is 
an  amiable  woman,  and  may  prove  a  valu- 
able friend.' 

'Lady  Cbatterton,' said  Rebecca,  read- 
ing the  card. 

'Yes,'  continued  he, 'she  was  lady  Elea- 
nor Harcourt,  only  daughter  of  the  late  earl. 
She  has  been  married  about  three  years.  A 
most  extraordinary  circumstance  happened 
about  that  time  ;  she  had  been  from  a  child 
designed  for  her  cousin  sir  George ' 

Just  then  a  carriage  drew  up,  several  la- 
dies of  fashion  demanded  the  jeweller's  at- 
tention, and  Rebecca,  thinking  her  mother 
might  want  her  attendance,  left  the  shop — 
not  without  wishing  she  could  have  heard 
what  sir  George  the  lady  was  designed  for, 
as  that  was  a  name  she  never  heard  men- 
tioned, but  she  felt  interested,  and  found  it 
impossible  to  suppress  the  emotions  of  her 
heart. 

Rebecca  was  truly  grateful  for  the  unex- 
pected bounty  she  had  received,  and  return- 


REBECCA.  249 

ed  home  fully  resolved  to  wait  on  the  benev- 
olent lad}-,  and  return  her  those  thanks  her 
astonishment  prevented  her  expressing  at 
the  time  :  but  on  the  morrow  her  mother 
was  so  ill  it  was  impossible  to  leave  her, 
and  for  several  succeeding  da}rs  it  rained 
continually:  however,  at  length  a  fine  mor- 
ning presented,  Mrs  Scrle  was  greatly  recov- 
ered, and  Rebecca,  dressing  herself  as  neat- 
ly as  the  very  limited  state  of  her  wardrobe 
would  allow,  proceeded  to  St  Alban  Street. 

On  knocking  at  the  door,  she  was  inform- 
ed that  lady  Chatterton  was  gone  out  for  a 
morning  ride ;  but  that,  if  she  was  the  young 
woman  her  ladyship  had  met  at  the  jewel- 
ler's, she  was  desired  to  wait  till  the  lady 
returned. 

Rebecca  was  pleased  with  this  little  mark 
of  attention,  and  was  shown  into  a  small  par- 
lor, where  a  child  of  about  eleven  years  old, 
was  practising  the  piano-forte. 

The  child  stopped  on  her  entrance,  and, 
starting  from  her  seat,  advanced  a  few  steps 
towards  Rebecca. 

'Do  not  let  me  interrupt  you,  Miss,"5  said 
our  heroine. 

'  Oh  !  but  I  am  sure  I  cannot  play,  ma'am,' 
said  the  child:  'indeed  I  cannot;  I  had 
much  rather  look  at  you.  And  pray  ma'am 
do  not  think  me  rude  if  1  ask  you  if  your 
name  is  not  Rebecca  Littleton.' 


250  REBECCA. 

'That  is  my  name,'  said  the  astonished 
Rebecca. 

'  I  knew,  I  was  sure,  it  could  be  no  other,' 
saiJ  i he  child,  throwing  her  arms  round  our 
heroine's  neck;  '  buuyou  have  forgot  me — 
you  do  not  remember  your  Lucy  Ossitcr.' 

'Miss  Ossiter!' 

'Yes,  your  own  little  girl  that  loved  you 
so  dearly,  and  almost  broke  her  poor  heart 
when  you  went  away:  but  you  shall  not  go 
away  again,  Rebecca;  my  dear  aunt  will 
not  let  you  go:   I  know  she  will  not.' 

'  What  aunt,  my  dear?' 

'  Why,  aunt  Eleanor:  I  live  with  aunt  El- 
eanor now.  Papa  and  mamma  arc  gone  to 
France,  and  brothers  are  at  school;  so  uncle 
George — Oh!  dear,  Rebecca,  1  have  got  so 
much  to  tell  you  about  uncle  George.  1  am 
sure  aunt  will  be  very  glad  to  see  yon  ;  un- 
cle and  she  are  gone  out  together.' 

'Good  heaven!'  thought  Rebecca,  'then 
I  am  in  the  very  house  I  most  wish  to  avoid. 

No  wonder  her  ladyship  said  she  knew 
the  picture;  but  now  is  my  only  time  for 
avoiding  a  painful  interview  with  sir  George, 
who  has,  no  doubt,  though  it  did  not  strike 
me  before,  succeeded  to  his  uncle's  title  on 
his  marriage  with  his  cousin.  Honor,  grat- 
itude, all  unite  to  urge  me  immediately  to 
quit  this  place.  Lady  Chatterton  has  ex- 
tended towards  me  the  hand  of  benevolence  ; 
nor  will  I  repay  her  by  throwing  myself  in 


REBECCA.  251 

the  way  of  bcr  husband,  who,  from  his  be- 
havior when  we  met  accidentally,  has  con- 
vinced me  he  still  entertains  an  improper 
regard  for  me.' 

'  As  my  lady  is  not  at  home,  my  dear  Miss 
Ossiter,'  said  she,  '  I  will  call  another  time.' 

'Well,  then,  let  it  be  soon  my  own  Rebec- 
ca^ say  you  will  come  again  tomorrow.' 

Rebecca  tenderly  embraced  the  affection- 
ate child,  and  having  given  her  a  kind  of 
half  promise  to  see  her  soon  again,  hastily 
left  the  house. 

'  Every  thing,1  said  she, '  conspires  against 
me.  I  never  find  friends  but  some  cross  ac- 
cident prevents  my  reaping  any  benefit  from 
their  kindness:  misfortune  seems  to  be  the 
only  portion  allotted  for  me  in  this  world, 
and  patience  and  resignation  my  only  com- 
forters. But  1  will  not  complain:  I  have 
been  unexpectedly  relieved  when  almost  in 
despair,  when  every  earthly  friend  had  ap- 
parently forsaken  me;  and,  I  trust,  I  shall 
be  supported  by  the  same  beneficent  Power, 
as  long  as  he  thinks  proper  to  lay  the  bur- 
then of  life  upon  me.' 

As  she  walked  along,  indulging  these  rc- 
flectiona,  it  struck  her  that  she  would  go  to 
her  uncle's  agent,  and  inquire  when  he  had 
heard  from  him,  and  whether  the  old  gentle- 
man was  soon  expected  in  England.  But 
when  she  got  to  the  place  where  he  used  to 
reside,   she   found  he  was  removed  to  a  dis- 


252  REBECCA. 

tant  part  of  the  town;  nor  could  the  people 
who  then  occupied  the  house,  give  her  a 
proper  direction  to  find  him. 

'Now  every  stay  is  gone,'  said  Rebecca, 
as  she  pursued  her  way  homeward;  '  but  I 
thank  God,  I  feel  my  health  returning,  and  I 
shall  be  enabled  to  obtain,  by  industry  at 
least,  the  necessaries  of  life  for  my  mother 
and  self.' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

When  sir  George  Worthy  left  England,  in 
order,  if  possible,  to  banish  from  his  remem- 
brance Rebecca  Littleton,  he  had,  previous 
to  his  departure,  visited  his  cousin  Eleanor, 
and  informed  her  of  the  state  of  his  heart. 

'I  esteem  you,  Eleanor,'  said  he;  'but  I 
do  not  love  you  as  a  man  ought  to  love  the 
woman  he  takes  for  his  wife.  To  be  can- 
did, my  heart  is  in  possession  of  another.' 

'And  to  be  equally  candid,  dear  George,' 
replied  the  lady,  'mine  is  exactly  in  the 
same  predicament;  yet  I  do  not  know  how 
we  shall  avoid  making  each  other  wretched, 
for  my  father  positively  swears  I  shall  have 
you  or  be  a  beggar,  and  my  poor  swain  has 
neither  name  or  fortune  to  recommend  him.' 

'I  mean  to  be  absent  two  years,'  said  sir 
George, '  that  will  give  you  a  short  reprieve. 


REBECCA.  253 

l  will  write  to  you  often,  and  if  at  any  time 
I  can  be  of  service  to  the  man  of  your  choice, 
do  not  hesitate  to  command  me.' 

In  the  earl  of  Chatterton's  family  was  a 
young  man,  nearly  of  the  same  age  with  El- 
eanor: he  was  a  foundling,  and  had  been 
brought  up  and  educated  by  his  lordship  in 
the  style  of  a  gentleman,  and,  when  at  a 
proper  age,  presented  with  a  commission. 

Oakly,  which  was  the  name  the  earl  had 
given  him,  from  having  found  him  one  mor- 
ning at  the  foot  of  an  oak  in  his  park,  wrap- 
ped in  a  mantle,  but  without  any  othercloth- 
ing.  Oakly  was  a  youth  of  strict  honor,  and 
his  heart  overflowed  with  gratitude  to  his 
benefactor,  whom  he  considered  in  the  light 
of  a  father;  but,  in  spite  of  honor,  gratitude, 
and  innumerable  resolutions  to  the  contrary, 
he  loved  lady  Eleanor,  somehow  or  other 
acquainted  her  with  his  passion,  and  found 
himself  beloved  in  return. 

Things  were  in  this  situation  when  sir 
George  left  England,  and  in  this  situation 
remained  when  a  letter  from  Eleanor  sum- 
moned him  to  return,  when  he  had  been  ab- 
sent abqut  eighteen  months.  The  earl  was 
ill,  felt  himself  daily  declining,  and  wished 
to  see  his  daughter  married  before  he  died. 
He  obeyed  the  summons  in  haste. 

Oakly  was  almost  distracted.     'But  what 
am  If  said   he,  'that  I  should  aspire  to  the 
hand  of  my  patron's  daughter? — an  outcast, 
32 


254  REBECCA. 

a  foundling,  without  family  or  name,  depen- 
dant on  his  bounty  even  for  the  bread  I  eat. 
No;  I  will  not  impede  her  union  with  a  man 
every  way  her  equal,  who  possesses  honor, 
and  goodness  of  heart,  and  will  do  justice  to 
her  virtues.     1  will  leave  England.' 

Unable  to  deliberate  on  a  subject  where 
inclination  and  reason  were  so  much  at  vari- 
ance, he  flew  to  the  earl,  and  solicited  an  ex- 
change into  a  regiment  destined  to  America  ; 
1  Let  me  gather  laurels  in  the  field  of  battle, 
my  dear  sir,'  said  he. 

The  eari  loved  him  tenderly.  He  pressed 
to  know  the  cause  of  this  unexpected  appli- 
cation, and  refused  to  exert  his  interest  in 
Oakly's  behalf  until  he  was  informed. 

1 1  love  a  woman  of  family  and  fortune,' 
said  he.  '  1  have  some  reason  to  think  I  am 
not  indifferent  to  her,  and,  knowing  my  un- 
fortunate situation,  1  wish  to  avoid  doing  a 
dishonorable  action.' 

1  You  will  never  act  dishonorably,  Oakly,' 
said  the  earl,  '  and  this  conduct  is  a  proof  of 
it.  Who  is  the  lady? — inform  me — 1  will 
speak  to  her  friends  in  your  favor,  and  give 
you  a  genteel  fortune.' 

;  Oh  !  my  generous  benefactor,'  cried  Oak- 
ly, '  indeed  it  is  impossible ;  her  parents  nev- 
er will  consent.     1  dare  not  name  her.' 

'Come,  come,  you  are  too  diffident:  I  am 
sure  there  is  no  family,  of  the  least  discern- 
ment,  but   would    think  themselves   highly 


REBECCA.  255 

honored  by  the  alliance.  Come,  who  is  the 
paragon  V 

'You  must  pardon  me,  sir;  I  should  en- 
tirely forfeit  your  friendship.1 

'You  will  undoubtedly  forfeit  it  by  this 
unkind  reserve.  I  am  willing  and  able  to 
serve  you,  Oakly ;  but  if,  by  your  obstinacy, 
you  put  it  out  of  my  power ' 

'Do  not  call  it  obstinacy.' 

'By  heavens!  Oakly,  I  love  you  as  my 
own  child;  only  tell  me  how  to  make  you 
happy,  and  I  will  do  it,  though  it  cost  half  I 
am  possessed  of.' 

'Ah!  sir,  I  fear,  when  you  know , 

'Know  what?'  cried  the  earl,  impatiently. 

'That  I  love  lady  Eleanor.' 

'Love  Eleanor !' cried  he,  emphatically; 
'  then  your  suit  is  indeed  hopeless,' 

Oakly's  heart  sunk  within  him. 

'\rou  are  a  noble  boy,  though,1  said  the 
earl, 'and  from  this  moment  I  hold  myself 
bound,  by  a  sacred  oath,  never  to  suffer  you 
to  know  the  want  of  a  friend.  Eleanor  has, 
from  her  childhood,  been  designed  for  her 
cousin  George ;  indeed,  my  late  sister  and 
myselfventered  into  a  solemn  engagement, 
that  whichever  outlived  the  other  should  see 
this  union  completed;  that  now  is  my  task. 
If  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  your  peace  to 
leave  England,  1  will  procure  you  the  neces- 
sary exchange;  but  I  wish,  my  dear  Oakly. 


256  REBECCA, 

you  could  conquer  your  passion  and  remain 
with  us.' 

k  That  is  not  in  my  power,  sir,'  replied  he  ; 
'to  be  employed  in  actual  service  is  now  the 
only  wish  I  have  to  make.' 

The  earl  did  not  mention  this  conversation 
to  either  his  daughter  or  sir  George,  and 
Oakly  carefully  avoided  an  interview  with 
Eleanor  until  he  was  really  appointed  to  a 
company  of  fool  that  was  expected  to  go  to 
New-York  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks.  He 
then,  having  made  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions for  joining  his  regiment,  took  a  tender 
leave  of  her,  assuring  her  it  was  his  hope  to 
ensure  her  felicitjj,  by  banishing  from  her 
sight  a  person  who  had  stepped  between  her 
and  her  duty,  and  who  would  rather  die  than 
have  it  said  he  had  basely  stolen  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  every  enjoy- 
ment, nay,  almost  life  itself. 

1  'Tis  all  in  vain,'  .said  Eleanor,  '  I  can  nev- 
er love  sir  George;  nor  do  I  think  even  the 
command  of  a  father  I  love  and  rcverp  can 
lead  me  to  give  him  my  hand.' 

However,  the  preparations  for  the  intend- 
ed nuptials  still  proceeded.  Sir  George  be- 
neld  them  with  total  indifference.  Pie  had 
used  every  endeavor  to  discover  Rebecca; 
had  traced  her  to  her  embarkation  with  Miss 
Abthorpe  for  America,  and  was  told  the  ves- 
sel in  which  they  went  was  lost  and  all  on 
board  perished. 


REBECCA.  257 

1  Rebecca  lost !'  he  remembered  his  moth- 
er's first  wish  to  see  lady  Eleanor  his  wife. 
'She  is  an  amiable  woman/  said  he,  'and 
though  1  cannot  love  again  with  the  enthusi- 
astic ardor  1  experienced  for  Rebecca,  1  will, 
if  she  voluntarily  accepts  my  hand,  exert 
myself  to  make  her  happy.  She,  like  my- 
self, has  experienced  disappointment  in  her 
tenderest  hopes;  we  can  at  least  console  each 
other,  and  make  up  in  friendship  what  we 
want  in  love.' 

Oakly  had  taken  leave  of  his  friends  at 
Windsor,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Portsmouth. 
Sir  George  was  in  town  with  the  lawyers, 
and  the  earl  and  lady  Eleanor  at  breakfast 
in  his  library  at  Windsor,  when  a  servant  in- 
formed him  that  a  clergyman  requested  to 
speak  to  them. — He  was  desired  to  walk  up. 

'  1  am  come,  my  lord,'  said  he,  seating  him- 
self with  considerable  embarrassment,  *  from 
a  poor  woman  in  this  place,  who,  it  is  ima- 
gined, is  at  the  point  of  death.  From  some- 
thing she  has  imparted  to  me,  I  imagine  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  for  your  lordship  to 
visit  her,  as  she  has  a  circumstance  to  relate 
which  nearly  concerns  your  family.  She  is 
likewise  in  distressed  circumstances,  and 
may,  while  she  lives,  which  will  not  be  long, 
require  your  benevolent  assistance.' 

The  earl  never  wanted  to  be  twice  told  of 
an  object  of  compassion. 

'  We  will  go  directly,'  said  he.  and,  ring- 

90* 


258  REBECCA. 

ing  the  bell,  ordered  the  carriage.  Lady  El- 
eanor and  the  clergyman  accompanied  him. 

At  a  small  cottage  on  the  extremity  of  a 
forest,  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  clergy- 
man led  the  way  into  an  inner  apartment, 
where,  on  a  bed,  expressive  of  poverty  in 
the  extreme,  lay  a  poor  emaciated  figure,  in 
the  last  stage  of  a  consumption. 

'Here  is  the  earl  and  his  daughter,  Mrs 
Watts,'  said  he. 

'They  are  very  good,'  replied  she,  'to 
come  and  see  such  a  wretch  as  1  am.  Oh  ! 
sir,  oh  !  my  lady,  you  will  never  forgive  me ; 
but  I  cannot  die  in  peace  till  1  have  informed 
you  that,  through  mine  and  my  sister's  wick- 
edness, you  have  nourished  an  impostor  in 
your  family,  and  that  the  real  heir  to  the  late 
sir  George  Worthy's  estate  is  either  totally 
lost,  or  may  be  a  poor  wanderer,  destitute 
of  bread.' 

The  earl  and  Eleanor  sat  in  mute  astonish- 
ment, gazing  at  each  other.  The  clergyman 
exhorted  the  penitent  to  proceed. 

'  My  eldest  sister,'  said  she,  '  was  employ- 
ed to  wet-nurse  her  son,  and  was  left  at 
Twickenham  with  the  child  while  her  lady- 
ship made  a  short  tour  to  Flanders.  During 
her  lady's  absence  my  sister  came  to  Wind- 
sor to  me,  bringing  master  with  her.  I  at 
that  time  gave  suck  to  a  sweet  little  boy  ex- 
actly of  the  same  age,  whose  mother  had  died 
at  my  house  but  a  month  before.     My  sister 


REBECCA.  259 

entreated  me  to  take  care  of  master  Worthy 
for  a  day,  while  she  went  to  town :  I  consent- 
ed, and  was  proud  of  my  charge.  In  the  af- 
ternoon (he  was  asleep  in  the  cradle)  I  left  a 
little  girl  to  rock  him,  and  stepped  about  half 
a  mile  to  buy  something  for  supper  against 
my  sister  came  home.  I  made  what  haste  1 
could,  but  on  my  return,  what  was  my  terror 
to  see  the  cradle  empty,  and  my  girl  at  play 
in  the  street!  However,  I  did  not  make  any 
noise,  or  alarm  the  neighborhood  ;  but  inqui- 
ring of  the  girl  who  had  been  there,  she  said, 
only  two  gypsy  women  begging.  It  imme- 
diately occurred  to  me,  that  the  gold  bells 
and  coral,  together  with  the  costly  lace  cap 
and  jam  the  child  had  on,  had  been  the  in- 
citement to  this  theft.  When  my  sister  re- 
turned, she  was  almost  distracted — her  char- 
acter would  be  gone — she  should  never  dare 
face  her  lady  again  !  That  evening  we  could 
think  of  nothing  in  order  to  avert  the  storm 
we  should  expect  on  my  lady's  return,  till  the 
diabolical  thought  presented  itself  of  substi- 
tuting my  little  nursling,  whose  features  and 
complexion  were  nearly  the  same,  in  place 
of  master  Worthy,  quieting  our  consciences 
with  the  idea  that,  as  his  mother  was  dead, 
and  his  father  very  poor,  and  talked  of  going 
abroad,  it  would  be  doing  a  deed  of  charity ; 
and  that,  if  we  should  ever  find  the  lost  in- 
fant, we  might  then  acknowledge  the  fraud. 
Accordingly  my  sister  returned  to  Twicken- 


260  REBECCA. 

ham  with  the  child,  the  plan  succeeded  be- 
yond our  expectations,  for  we  feared  the 
penetration  of  the  servants,  and  1  wrote  to 
the  father  of  the  boy  that  his  child  was  dead.' 

'And  who  is  it  then,'  cried  the  enraged 
earl,  '  whom  you  have  thus  infamously  palm- 
ed upon  the  family  for  the  son  of  my  sister, 
and  who  was,  within  a  few  days,  to  have 
been  married  to  my  daughter?' 

'His  father's  name  was  George  Littleton,' 
she  replied  faintly,  'and  he  was  christened 
after  him.' 

'And  have  you  never  heard  any  thing  of 
my  poor  cousin?'  said  Eleanor,  tenderly. 

'Never,  madam;  but  should  he  ever  be 
found,  he  has  on  his  right  arm,  just  below 
the  shoulder,  the  mark  of  a  mulberry.' 

'Saddle  my  horses;  send  off  all  my  ser- 
vants,' said  the  earl,  starting  up;  'he  shall 
not  go  to  that  d d  fighting  place.' 

'My  dear  father!'  cried  Eleanor. 

'Rejoice,  rejoice,  my  girl,  for  upon  my 
soul  the  young  dog  had  that  mark  on  his  arm 
when  I  found  him  sprawling  under  the  oak.' 

'  And  is  he  alive  then  ?'  said  the  poor  wom- 
an.    'Thank  God!  then  I  shall  die  content.' 

George  Littleton,  as  we  must  now  call 
him,  however  conscious  of  his  innocence, 
felt  greatly  hurt  at  being  so  long  the  usurper 
of  another's  name  and  property,  but  the  earl 
would  not  suffer  him  to  dwell  on  the  subject ; 
and  on  his  marriage  with  lady  Eleanor,  sir 


REBECCA.  261 

George  presented  his  quondam  rival  with 
the  writings  of  an  estate,  worth  five  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  given  to  him  and  his  heirs 
forever;  and  so  fond  were  they  of  his  soci- 
ety, that  it  was  but  a  small  part  of  every 
year  lie  spent  from  them. 

The  earl  did  not  long  survive  his  daughter's 
marriage,  and  sir  George  succeeded  to  the 
title  of  earl  of  Chatterton,  the  earl  having 
begged  the  reversion  of  it  for  him  sometime 
previous  to  his  death. 

Mr  Littleton  had  given  up  all  hopes  of 
hearing  of  Rebecca.  He  imagined  her  dead  ; 
but  her  image  was  so  deeply  engraven  on  his 
heart,  that  he  resolved  never  to  enter  into 
the  married  state.  Sometimes  he  would 
think  she  might,  perhaps,  have  been  his  sis- 
ter, for  he  had  never  heard  her  father's 
christian  name,  but  his  heart  recoiled  from 
this  suggestion.  She  was  undoubtedly  a  re- 
lation, yet  he  had  never  heard  her  mention 
any  uncle,  but  she  might  have  many  ;  he 
had  never  made  many  inquiries  concerning 
her  family. 

One  evening,  when  he  was  at  a  supper- 
party  with  lord  Ossiier,  that  nobleman  ad- 
dressed him  with,  'George,  1  saw  an  old  ac- 
quaintance of  yours  last  night.  Ah,  now  1 
think  of  it,  she  may  be  a  relation.' 

'Who  do  you  mean,  my  lord?' 

'•  Who  !  why,  who  but  that  demure,  primi- 


262  REBECCA. 

tive  pfece  of  affected  innocence,  Miss  Rebec- 
ca Littleton. ' 

'You  must  be  mistaken,  my  lord;  I  have 
every  reaadn  to  think  she  has  been  dead  sev- 
eral years.1 

'And  I  have  a  substantial  reason  to  think 
she  was  alive  last  night,  and  in  my  arms.' 

He  then  gave  an  account  of  the  affair  at 
lord  Winterton's,  little  to  the  honor  of  our 
heroine. 

'  Poor  girl,'  said  George,  mentally, '  heavy 
must  have  been  the  trials  that  drove  her  to 
a  life  of  infamy.' 

From  that  time  he  frequented  every  place 
where  he  thought  it  likely  to  meet  with  her. 
'I  will  snatch  her  from  perdition,'  said  he. 
'She  shall  share  my  little  portion,  eat  of  my 
bread,  and  drink  of  my  cup.  1  will  speak 
consolation  to  a  mind  that  was  once  as  pure 
as  angels,  and  cannot,  without  infinite  pain, 
be  intimate  with  vice.' 

About  this  time  lord  Ossiter's  extrava- 
gance had  so  involved  his  estates,  that  it  was 
necessary  he  should  make  a  trip  to  the  con- 
tinent in  order  to  retrieve  them.  George 
undertook  to  settle  all  his  debts,  and  put  the 
estates  under  proper  regulations,  and  for  this 
purpose  took  up  his  residence  in  Bedford- 
Square.  He  had  been  dining  out,  where 
the  champaign  flew  briskly  round,  when  he 
accidentally  met  our  heroine  just  descended 
from  the  stage.     The  wine  gave  him  a  great 


REBECCA.  263 

flow  of  spirits,  which,  added  to  the  relation 
he  had  heard  from  lord  Ossiter,  accounts  for 
the  rude  manner  in  which  he  accosted  her. 

The  blow  he  received  from  the  old  sailor 
almost  stunned  him  ;  however,  he  followed 
him  into  the  house,  and  insisted  on  satisfac- 
tion for  the  insult,  as  he  termed  it.  The  old 
man  swore  it  was  a  blow  given  in  a  right 
cause,  and  that  he  was  ready  to  give  him  a 
dozen  more  if  he  were  not  already  satisfied. 

During  this  altercation  the  coachman  en- 
tered with  Rebecca's  trunk,  and  asked  where 
the  young  woman  was  to  pay  him  his  fare. 

'She  ran  off,'  said  a  man  who  saw  the 
transaction. 

'Well  then,'  says  the  coachman,  'I  must 
keep  the  trunk  for  what  she  owes.'  As  he 
spoke  he  rested  one  end  of  it  on  a  chair 
near  a  table  on  which  stood  a  candle. 

The  old  sailor  looked  at  the  directions, 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  again.  'By  all 
that's  good,'  said  he,  'it  is  my  own  girl,  my 
Rebecca!  Which  way  did  she  go?  Let  me 
follow  her.     Stand  out  of  my  way.' 

'  Not  until  you  have  paid  me,'  said  the 
coachman,  surlily. 

The  vold  man  threw  down  five  shillings, 
and  told  a  waiter  to  take  care  of  the  trunk, 
ran  out,  followed  by  George ;  but,  instead  of 
turning  into  Pall-Mail,  they  went  through 
the  Palace  into  the  Park,  their  search  was 
therefore  vain. 


264  REBECCA. 

As  they  returned  slowly  together  George 
asked  the  old  man  if  he  were  any  relation 
to  Miss  Littleton. 

'Yes,'  said  he,  'I  am  all  the  relation  she 
has  in  the  world,  and  a  devilish  poor  one 
too,  for  I  have  not  above  half  a  guinea  at 
this  present  time  in  my  pocket.  I  have  not 
been  in  London  above  two  hours,  nor  in 
England  above  eight  and  forty.' 

'  Is  your  name  Littleton,  sir?' 

1  So  my  mother  told  me;  I  suppose  she 
knew.' 

'  Pardon  me  if  I  am  troublesome  ;  but  had 
you  ever  a  son?' 

'Yes;  but  he  died  an  infant.' 

'You  were  informed  he  died  at  Windsor?' 
The  old  man  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

'  Ah !  my  dear  sir,'  said  George, '  you  were 
deceived;  your  son  still  lives;  longs  eager- 
ly to  embrace  you,  and  divide  with  you  the 
competence  he  enjoys.' 

By  this  time  they  had  returned  to  the  pub- 
lic house.  George  called  for  a  room,  knelt 
before  his  father,  and  related  to  himfall  the 
reader  is  already  acquainted  with.  What 
wonder  if,  in  the  delightful  hurry  of  spirits 
this  discovery  occasioned,  they  did  not  think 
of  the  necessity  of  writing  a  note  for  Rebec- 
ca in  case  she  came  to  inquire  for  her  trunk  ; 
but,  satisfied  with  leaving  a  verbal  message, 
they  repaired  to  Bedford-Square  to  enjoy 
an  uninterrupted  conversation. 


REBECCA  265 

The  next  morning  Rebecca,  so  dear  to 
both  their  hearts,  recurred  to  their  imagina- 
tions. George  beheld  her  in  want,  plunged 
in  infamy,  the  horrors  of  which  her  suscep- 
tible heart  severely  felt,  and  from  which  she 
could  by  no  means  extricate  herself. 

'  She  may  be  in  want,'  said  his  father, '  but 

I'll  bed d  if  she  is  infamous.     I  know 

the  dear  girl,  George,  and  I'd  stake  my  life 
upon  her  innocence.  He  then  gave  his  son 
an  account  of  the  manner  in  which  he  found 
her  in  America,  of  the  respect  and  esteem 
she  created  wherever  she  was  known,  and 
how  much  she  was  beloved  by  colonel  Ab- 
thorpe's  family.  But  let  us  go  to  the  house 
where  the  coach  stopped,'  continued  he, 
'she  will  most  likely  call  there  to  get  her 
trunk.' 

They  went  out  together,  and  entered  the 
house  just  ten  minutes  after  she  had  left  it. 
Disappointed  and  grieved,  unable  by  any 
means  to  trace  which  way  she  had  gone,  and 
fearing  she  would  be  distressed  for  the  loss 
of  her  trunk,  which  might  contain  all  her 
worldly  possessions,  they  returned  heavily 
home,  and  resolved  to  advertise  it.  This 
they  immediately  did  in  several  papers,  in 
such  a  manner  as  it  was  impossible  for  Re- 
becca not  to  know  it  was  herself  that  was 
meant,  though  only  the  initials  of  the  name 
were  used ;  but  Rebecca  never  saw  the  pa- 
23 


26G  REBECCA. 

pers,  and  the  repeated  advertisements  were 
fruitless. 

George  had  introduced  li is  father  to  lord 
and  lady  Chatterton;  but  though  Rebecca 
had  been  once  or  twice  mentioned  before 
that  lady,  he  had  always  avoided  entering 
into  explanations,  and  lady  Chatterton  did 
not  know  that  she  was  the  woman  George 
had  so  long  loved ;  for  though,  in  the  early 
part  of  their  intimacy,  he  had  frequenty  de- 
clared that  his  heart  was  engaged,  he  had 
never  said  to  whom,  or  whether  she  was 
above  or  beneath  him  in  rank;  but  simply 
said,  he  had  no  hope  of  being  united  to  her. 

On  the  day  lady  Chatterton  had  met  her 
at  the  jeweller's,  she  mentioned  the  circum- 
stance at  dinner  time.  George  and  his  fa- 
ther that  day  dined  with  them.  'I  wanted 
to  buy  it  of  her,'  said  she,  '  for  one  of  the 
pictures  was  so  like  George  Littleton,  and 
the  other  was  a  lady  whom  I  did  not  know, 
though  I  have  seen  the  features  before.' 

'Good  heavens  !' said  George,  'J  am  cer- 
tain it  could  only  be  Rebecca  herself.' 

'  I  wish  it  may,'  said  the  lady  ;  '  but  I  did 
not  think  of  it  at  the  time  ;  however,  I  have 
appointed  her  to  come  here  tomorrow.' 

'  How  did  the  poor  girl  look  ?'  said  old 
Mr  Littleton. 

'•Very  pale,'  replied  she,  'and,  1  fear,  is 
in  distress,  from  her  agitation,  and  her  visi- 
ble reluctance  to  part  with  the  pictures.' 


REBECCA.  2G7 

'  Oh  !  ray  poor,  lost  Rebecca,'  said  George, 
and  rising  hastily  from  the  table,  left  the 
room  to  give  vent  to  those  emotions  be  could 
no  longer  suppress. 

Rebecca,  in  distress,  offering,  with  evident 
reluctance,  the  gold  that  enveloped  his  por- 
trait for  sale,  convinced  him  he  still  retained 
a  tender  place  in  her  remembrance.  Once 
to  have  been  beloved  by  her  would  have 
been  his  highest  wish  ;  now  she  was  contam- 
inated, lost  to  virtue!  and  though  still  inex- 
pressibly dear  to  his  heart,  she  could  never 
be  his  wife.  Yet  she  might  be  innocent; — 
lord  Ossitcr  was  not  a  man  of  the  strictest 
veracity;  he  would  have  given  worlds  for 
an  interview  with  her;  and,  unable  to  wait 
the  issue  of  the  morning,  when  she  was  ex- 
pected in  St  Alban-Strcet,  he  obtained  of 
lady  Chatterton  a  direction  to  the  jeweller, 
who,  however,  could  give  him  no  informa- 
tion. 

Those  only  who  have  felt  the  pnngs  of 
suspense,  can  imagine  the  anxiety  of  Mr  Lit- 
tleton and  George  during  the  night.  The 
next  morning  they  repaired  early  to  St  Al- 
ban-Street,  but  the  day  passed  and  no  Re- 
becca appeared.  Another  and  another  mor- 
ning came,  and  still  brought  with  them  dis- 
appointment. 

'She  will  never  come,'  said  George;  'the 
poor  girl  is  conscious  of  her  unhappy  situa- 
tion, and  shame  prevents  her  taking  advan- 


268  REBECCA. 

tage  of  lady  Chatterton's  offers  of  service/ 
Mr  Littleton  began  to  be  of  the  same  opin- 
ion ;  but  the  benevolent  lady  Chattcrtnn  nev- 
er went  out  without  leaving  orders  with  her 
porter,  that,  should  Rebecca  call  she  might 
be  desired  to  wait  till  her  return.  '  I  will  my- 
self,' said  she, '  have  the  pleasure  of  presen- 
ting her  to  her  uncle.  She  shall  not  be  has- 
tily informed  that  he  is  in  England,  lest  it 
should  overpower  her  spirits  ;  and,  if  J  find 
her  worthy,  I  will  give  her  to  her  amiable 
cousin,  and  make  her  a  fortune  worth  his 
acceptance.' 

But  unfortunately  Miss  Ossiter's  joy,  the 
effusions  of  which  were  mingled  with  inco- 
herent intelligence  concerning  her  uncle's 
marriage,  prevented  poor  Rebecca's  bene- 
fitting by  her  ladyship's  kind  intentions  in 
her  behalf. 

George  Littleton  had  accompanied  lord 
and  lady  Chatterton  in  their  morning  ride. 
They  returned  together.  Miss  Ossiter  came 
running  to  them  as  they  entered  the  parlor. 

'Oh!  dear  aunt,  who  do  you  think  has 
been  here;  the  greatest  stranger!  I  do  not 
think  you  know  her;  but  1  told  her  I  was 
sure  you  would  be  glad  to  see  her.' 

'  Why,  who  was  it,  my  love?'  said  her  la- 
dyship, seating  herself. 

'Why,  it  was  my  own  Rebecca  Littleton! 
1  knew  her  in  a  minute,  though  she  is  so  pale 
and  thin/ 


REBECCA.  269 

1  And  where  is  she?'  said  George. 

'She  could  not  wait  any  longer,'  replied 
the  child;  k  but  said  she  would  call  again 
tomorrow.' 

1  Was  ever  any  thing  so  unfortunate,'  said 
lady  Chatterton. 

George  bit  his  lips,  took  hasty  strides  back 
and  forward  in  the  room,  frequently  struck 
his  forehead  with  his  hand,  but  spoke  not. 

In  the  afternoon  the  following  letter  was 
brought  to  lady  Chatterton. 


■  MADAM 


Agreeable  to  your  ladyship's  benevolent 
desire,  I  this  morning  waited  on  you  in  St 
Alban-Street,  an  honor  which  the  extreme 
illness  of  my  mother  had  prevented  my  en- 
joying so  early  as  I  wished.  While  1  was, 
in  compliance  with  your  commands,  waiting 
your  ladyship's  return  from  airing,  I  discov- 
ered that  lord  Chatterton  and  sir  George 
Worthy  are  one  and  the  same  person ;  it, 
therefore,  struck  me  that  your  ladyship  hav- 
ing seen  his  portrait  in  my  possession,  might 
entertain  but  an  indifferent  opinion  of  my 
character.  It  might  also  occasion  uneasi- 
ness between  my  lord  and  you,  and  inter- 
rupt that  felicity  which  I  fervently  wish  mav 
be  as  lasting  as  your  lives.  I  thought  it  my 
duty,  therefore,  to  explain  to  your  ladyship 
the  means  by  which  this  portrait  came  into 
my  possession. 

'  I  once,  madam,  lived  in  the  family  of  the 


«'b 


270  REBECCA. 

late  lady  Mary  Worthy,  more  as  a  highly 
favored  companion  than  a  servant.  Indeed, 
she  was  to  me  a  generous  friend,  a  dear  and 
respected  benefactress,  whom  living  1  loved 
with  the  affection  of  a  daughter,  and  whom 
dead  I  can  never  cease  to  lament. 

1  Some  months  after  her  death  I  received 
her  portrait  as  a  present  from  sir  George,  by 
the  hand  of  Mrs  Harley,  her  ladyship?s 
housekeeper,  but  did  not  know  it  contained 
the  resemblance  of  sir  George,  till  some  time 
after  it  had  been  in  my  possession;  nor  have 
1  seen  him  since  till  about  two  months  ago, 
when  1  accidentally  met  him  in  the  street, 
and  then  we  scarcely  spoke  to  each  other. 

'  Permit  me,  madam,  to  return  my  thanks 
for  the  unexpected  bounty  you  so  delicately 
bestowed  upon  me;  to  thank  you  also  for 
that  benevolence  of  heart  which  led  you  so 
far  to  interest  yourself  in  my  behalf,  as  to 
wish  again  to  see  me;  to  have  enjoyed  your 
friendly  protection  would  have  been  a  cor- 
dial to  my  depressed  soul ;  to  deserve  it,  the 
study  of  my  life.  But,  alas!  madam,  an  in- 
surmountable obstacle  is  placed  between  me 
and  so  enviable  a  distinction.  Since  1  was 
so  happy  as  to  meet  you,  a  circumstance  has 
occurred  which  will  prevent  my  again  hav- 
ing the  pleasure  of  waiting  upon  you ;  but 
permit  me  to  offer  up  the  most  ardent  peti- 
tions for  the  continued  happiness  of  your- 
self and  lord.     May  peace  and  love  ever 


REBECCA.  271 

dwell  in  your  bosoms,  and  prosperity  crown 
your  days.  Permit  me  also  to  add,  that 
however  inconsistent  my  conduct  may  ap- 
pear, my  heart  will  ever  overflow  with  the 
most  grateful  affection  towards  your  lady- 
ship, while  it  beats  in  the  breast  of, 

Your  obliged  humble  servant, 

REBECCA  LITTLETON.'' 

'I  can't  comprehend  all  this,'  said  lady 
Chatterton,  putting  the  letter  into  George 
Littleton's  hand.  He  ran  his  eye  hastily 
over  the  contents. 

'But  I  can,'  said  he ;  '  I  conceive  it  all; 
the  dear  girl  has  never  heard  of  the  discov- 
ery of  the  real  sir  George  Worthy.  She  im- 
agines me  to  be  your  husband,  and  the  gen- 
erosity of  her  soul  will  not  suffer  her  to 
throw  herself  in  the  way  of  a  man  who  once 
professed  to  love  her,  and  whom,  from  the 
whole  tenor  of  her  conduct,  1  have  reason  to 
think  she  loves.' 

'  I  would  lay  my  life  she  is  a  good  girl,' 
said  lady  Chatterton;  'indeed,  her  counte- 
nance appeared  the  index  of  a  mind  replete 
with  innocence  and  purity.  1  will  instantly 
order  the  carriage  and  go  to  her;  nor  will  i 
return  without  her.' 

'Dear,  generous  lady  Chatterton,'  said 
George,  ringing  the  bell. 

'  Where  is  the  person  who  brought  this 
letter?'  said  the  lady. 


272  REBECCA. 

'It  was  brought  by  a  porter,  madam,  and 
he  did  not  stop  a  moment.' 

The  jo_y  that  had  for  a  moment  animated 
the  features  of  George,  instantly  vanished. 
He  again  caught  up  the  letter,  but  there  was 
no  address  annexed  to  it. 

After  every  probable  method  had  been 
taken  by  Mr  Littleton,  George,  and  lady 
Chatterton  to  discover  our  heroine's  retreat, 
all  proving  equally  ineffectual,  they  were 
obliged  to  rest  satisfied  that  no  exertion  of 
theirs  had  been  wanting,  and  trust  to  chance 
for  a  discovery,  which,  their  united  endeav- 
ors had  not  been  able  to  make.  Old  Mr  Lit- 
tleton began  to  be  tired  of  living  on  shore, 
and  applied  for  employment;  but  as  he  an- 
nexed to  the  request  the  condition  of  being 
promoted  in  the  service,  he  found  but  little 
attention  was  paid  to  it,  and  he  only  obtain- 
ed promises,  that  when  opportunity  offered 
he  should  be  remembered.  He  spent  great 
part  of  his  time  with  the  Chatterton  family, 
and  as  the  summer  approached  it  was  pro- 
posed, that  both  himself  and  George  should 
accompany  them  to  their  country  seat. 

Lady  Chatterton's  birth  day  was  on  the 
7th  of  June,  and  she  made  a  point  of  always 
celebrating  it  before  she  left  town,  her  hus- 
band regularly  presenting  her  with  five  hun- 
dred pounds  to  be  expended  on  the  occasion. 
Mr  Clayton,  his  lordship's  chaplain,  being 
caterer  extraordinary,  always  provided  the 


REBECCA.  273 

entertainment,  in  which  her  ladyship  was  so 
very  selfish,  as  to  allow  no  one  to  partake 
but  her  husband,  this  identical  chaplain  and 
herself. 

Mr  Clayton  was  always  extremely  busy 
for  some  weeks  previous  to  the  day;  the 
whole  cities  of  London,  Westminster,  and 
their  environs,  being  ransacked  for  delica- 
cies to  suit  her  ladyship's  taste;  for  on  this 
day  she  was  a  real  voluptuary,  though  all 
the  rest  of  her  life  was  marked  by  temper- 
ance and  moderation.  But  to  speak  without 
a  metaphor,  lady  Chatterton  was  a  woman 
of  so  unfashionable  a  turn,  that,  rather  than 
raise  the  envy  of  half  the  town  by  giving  a 
splendid  ball,  she  chose  to  expend  the  mon- 
ey her  husband  gave  her  in  relieving  indi- 
gence, and  raising  depressed  merit. 

'There  shall  be  some  cause  for  rejoicing 
on  my  birth-day/  said  she,  'for  1  will  cheer 
the  afflicted  spirit,  and  fulfd  the  duties  in- 
cumbent on  my  station:  we  were  created  to 
be  of  service  to  each  other,  and  we  have  no 
reason  to  rejoice  in  our  creation,  but  as  we 
fulfil  the  design  of  our  Creator.' 

Mr  Clayton,  therefore,  carefully  searched 
for  objects  proper  to  excite  her  ladyship's 
compassion,  and  share  her  benevolence. — 
The  happy  season  now  drew  near,  and  Mr 
Clayton  took  his  usual  walks  round  the  me- 
tropolis, while,  with  a  laudable  curiosity,  he 
made  little  errands  into  chandlers'  shops, 


274  REBECCA. 

green  stalls,  and  public  houses,  in  order  to 
learn  the  circumstances  of  the  people  in  ev- 
ery poor  neighborhood  through  which  he 
passed.  It  happened  as  he  was  purchasing 
some  barley-sugar  at  a  shop  of  the  former 
description,  he  saw  two  suspicious  looking 
men  ascend  the  stairs,  and  immediately  af- 
ter heard  a  bustle  in  the  apartment  over  the 
shop.  Presently  the  men  came  down,  ac- 
companied by  a  genleel  looking  man  in  deep 
mourning.  He  had  the  air  and  manner  of  a 
gentleman  ;  but  his  uncombed  hair,  and  pale, 
unshaven  face,  bespoke  a  mind  ill  at  ease. 

'Well,  they  have  nabbed  him  at  last,' 
said  the  mistress  of  the  shop,  as  the  young 
man  and  his  ungenteel  companions  left  the 
house  together.  'Would  you  believe  it,  sir, 
that  young  man,  not  six  months  ago,  was 
one  of  the  gayest  bucks  about  town.  1  re- 
member him  flashing  away  like  a  lord,  and 
I  was  told  he  visited  lords  and  gentlefolks 
of  great  fortune.  Indeed,  they  did  say, 
there  was  a  lady  of  quality  in  love  with  him  ; 
but  that  was  not  much  to  his  credit  or  ad- 
vantage, for  she  was  a  married  woman,  and 
once  he  nearly  lost  his  life  by  her  husband."' 

'  But  if  he  were  so  gay,'  said  Clayton, 
'how  came  he  to  be  so  reduced  as  he  now 
appears  V 

'  Why,  sir,  you  must  know  I  can  give  good 
information,  for  I  once  lived  servant  in  the 
family,   though  now,   thank  God,  I  can  hold 


REBECCA.  273 

up  my  head  without  service,  or  without  be* 
ing  beholden  to  any  body,  and  that  is  more 
than  every  one  can  say.' 

'Well;  but  about  the  young  gentleman,' 
said  Clayton,  rather  impatiently. 

1  Yes,  as  I  was  saying,  he  was  a  gay  spark, 
and  Miss,  his  sister,  a  very  fine  lady.  His 
father  was  a  merchant,  kept  a  large  house 
in  the  city,  and  lived  away  at  a  very  high 
rate;  coach,  servants,  every  thing  like  a 
lord.  Well,  behold  you,  he  died  about  six 
months  ago,  and  left  not  a  farthing  behind 
him;  so  away  went  coach,  fine  house,  furni- 
ture, plate  and  all,  to  pay  his  debts,  and 
madam,  Miss,  and  her  brother  forced  to  hum- 
ble themselves,  so  they  came  to  lodge  with 
me.  The  young  man  got  a  trifling  place  in 
some  office,  and  that  is  all  they  have  to  live 
on,  which,  I  believe  in  my  conscience,  is  lit- 
tle enough,  for  they  run  some  long  bills  with 
me.  Why,  sir,  they  owes  me  above  three 
guineas  now;  but,  seeing  as  how  other  peo- 
ple arc  taking  measures  to  get  their  own,  I 
shall  make  bold  to  ask  for  mine.  Charity 
begins  at  home,  is  an  old  proverb,  and  a 
very  good  one.  Don't  you  think  so.  sir?  If 
Mr  SaVage  can't  pay  his  tailor,  mayhap, 
when  the  bill  gels  a  little  higher  he  may  not 
be  able  to  pay  me.' 

'True,' said  Clayton,  coldly;  '  but  pray 
could  you  bring  me  to  a  sight  of  Mrs  Sav- 
age or  her  daughter?' 


27G  REBECCA. 

'Lord,  not  I;  they  are  so  proud,  that  if  a 
body  offers  to  speak  or  introduce  a  friend, 
they  are  upon  stilts  directly.' 

1  Well,  but  pray  step  up  with  a  civil  mes- 
sage from  me  ;  say  I  wish  to  speak  with  them 
on  particular  business.' 

'And   who  must  I  tell  them  you  are,  §ir?' 

'  My  name  is  of  no  consequence ;  only  say 
a  clergyman.' 

The  woman  executed  the  commission,  and, 
soon  returning,  he  was  desired  to  walk  up. 

On  entering  a  small  ill-furnished  apart- 
ment, he  beheld  two  charmingly  preposses- 
sing women,  the  eldest  did  not  appear  to  be 
more  than  forty  years  old,  and  the  youngest 
seventeen;  they  were  dressed  in  mourning, 
plain,  but  very  becoming,  and  had  much  the 
air  of  women  of  fashion. 

He  apologized  for  the  seeming  rudeness 
of  a  stranger  intruding  himself  into  their 
apartments  uninvited,  said  that  he  had  seen 
the  transaction  of  the  arrest,  and  thought 
it  might  be  in  his  power  to  alleviate,  if  not 
entirely  remove,  their  distresses. 

The  mother's  eyes  overflowed  at  the  men- 
tion of  her  son's  imprisonment.  Her  daugh- 
ter took  her  hand,  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
and  gave  her  a  consolatory  look ;  but  the 
startling  drops  of  sympathy  that  trembled 
in  her  eyes  forbade  her  utterance. 

'Lady  Chatterton  will  dry  those  tears,' 
said  Clayton,  mentally,  'or  I  am  deceived 


REBECCA.  277 

ia  her  character.  What  a  pity  so  much 
sweetness  should  droop  under  the  heavy 
hand  of  affliction !' 

Clayton  was  a  young  man — Miss  Savage 
a  charming  woman. 

He  drew  from  them,  in  the  most  delicate 
manner,  an  account  of  their  various  embar- 
rassments in  pecuniary  matters,  said  he  had 
known  the  late  Mr  Savage,  and  once  re- 
ceived a  great  obligation  at  his  hands,  which 
he  was  happy  in  having  now  the  power  to 
return,  requested  they  would  consider  him 
as  their  banker ;  '•for,  my  dear  Miss,' said 
he  to  the  daughter,  'I  owed  your  father  a 
considerable  sum  of  money.'  He  then  pre- 
sented them  with  the  whole  contents  of  his 
purse,  as  he  said,  in  part  payment,  and  de- 
parted, promising  to  see  them  again  soon. 

His  assertions,  in  regard  to  having  known 
Mr  Savage,  were  not  strictly  true;  but  it 
was  a  pious  fraud,  which  he  reconciled  by 
reflecting  that  every  Christian  owed  a  debt 
of  charity  to  the  distressed  and  afflicted,  by 
which  he  prevailed  on  the  distressed  ladies 
to  accept  pecuniary  aid,  and  he  humbly 
trusted,  the  design  would  sanctify  the  act. 

Two  days  from  this  was  lady  Chatterlon's 
birth-day. — '  Come,  Clayton,'  said  she,  when 
she  had  read  the  memorandums  over  of  that 
day's  route,  l  we  will  pay  the  first  visit  to 
your  pretty  Savage.' 

Clayton  introduced  her  to  the  ladies  as  a 
24 


278  REBECCA. 

person  courting  their  friendship  and  desk 
rous  of  serving  them.  From  them  she  learn- 
ed that  young  Savage,  when  arrested,  hav- 
ing not  the  least  hope  of  liberation,  had  in- 
sisted on  being  immediately  conveyed  to 
prison. 

'Then  we  will  go  and  find  a  key  to  open 
those  tremendous  doors,'  said  lady  Chatter- 
ton,  'and  1  think,'  (glancing  her  eye  over 
her  memorandums)  '  1  have  some  other  busi- 
ness to  transact  there.  My  dear  ladies  1 
will  soon  send  this  beloved  son  and  brother 
to  you,  on  condition  you  all  dine  with  me  to 
day  at  five  o'clock.'  She  presented  her 
card  and  departed,  leaving  the  ladies  op- 
pressed by  sensations  which  could  only  be 
expressed  by  tears. 

Lady  Chatterton  proceeded  to  the  prison, 
and  was  introduced  to  young  Savage,  whom 
she  immediately  congratulated  on  his  liber- 
ty. 'Your  disagreeable  business  is  all  set- 
tled, sir,'  said  she,  '  and  I  beg  you  will  hasten 
home  to  your  expecting  mother  and  sister.' 
Savage  gazed  at  lady  Chatterton  with  aston- 
ishment; for,  habited  as  she  was,  in  a  plain 
robe  of  white  muslin,  a  bonnet,  and  a  cloak 
of  the  same  materials,  and  led  by  the  hand 
of  the  meek,  benevolent-looking  Clayton, 
he  knew  not  whether  to  consider  her  as  an 
inhabitant  of  this  globe  or  a  celestial  spirit. 

'  If  what  you  say,  madam,"'  cried  he,  'be 
really  true,  and  1  have  no  reason  to  doubt 


REBECCA.  270 

it,  for  your  countenance  is  benevolence  it- 
self. Pardon  my  seeming  ingratitude,  but 
I  could  have  wished  ihe  affair  had  not  been 
so  hastily  concluded.1 

'Strange,  indeed  I1  said  her  ladyship  ; — 
c  Do  you  not  want  liberty  ?' 

'Most  ardently,  madam;  but  there  is  in 
this  habitation  of  misery,  an  object  more  de- 
serving your  charitable  notice,  an  object  so 
pitiable,  so  very  interesting  to  the  feelings 
of  humanity,  that  I  could,  with  satisfaction, 
have  seen  the  liberality  extended  in  my  be- 
half, transferred  to  her.' 

'Thank  heaven,' said  her  ladyship,  'nei- 
ther the  means  of  comforting  the  afflicted, 
nor  the  will  to  use  those  means  arc  denied 
me;  neither  my  heart  or  purse  are  limited. 
Come,  sir,  lead  on  to  the  place  where  1  may 
dry  the  tear  of  sorrow,  and  gladden  the  pris- 
oner's ear  by  the  welcome  sound  of  liberty.' 

Savage  led  the  way  to  a  miserable  room, 
in  which,  on  a  truss  of  straw,  for  neither  bed 
or  chair  appeared  in  the  apartment,  laid  an 
elderly  woman  almost  worn  to  a  skeleton, 
whose  haggard  looks  and  labored  breathing, 
seemed  to  portend  approaching  dissolution. 
On  the  same  straw,  supporting  the  aged  in- 
valid's head  in  her  lap,  sat  the  almost  shad- 
owy figure  of  a  young  creature,  habited  in  a 
white  bed-gown,  her  hair  hanging  negligent- 
ly over  her  face  and  shoulders,  one  hand 
held  the  burning  forehead  of  the  apparently 


280  REBECCA. 

dying  woman,  the  other  hung  motionless  by 
her  side.  Beside  them  stood  a  pitcher  of 
waier,  and  a  small  brown  loaf. 

'Heaven  preserve  us,' said  lady  Chatter- 
ton,  gasping  for  breath,  'what  a  scene  is 
here!'  The  old  woman  raised  her  languid 
eyes  at  the  sound  of  the  voice,  but  the  young 
woman  remained  in  the  same  posture,  nor 
seemed  to  heed  that  any  one  approached. 

Lady  Chatterton  now  drew  near,  took  her 
hand,  and,  in  a  voice  soft  as  the  music  of 
the  spheres,  bid  her  be  comforted.  'Come, 
cheer  up,  my  poor  girl,'  said  she,  '  1  will  do 
all  I  can  to  serve  you.' 

She  turned  her  head,  looked  earnestly  at 
lady  Chatterton,  a  faint  glow  rushed  over 
her  pale  features,  and  ns  quickly  disappear- 
ed as  she  exclaimed,  '  Oh  !  i  know  you  ;  you 
are  an  angel  of  benevolence,''  and  fainted. 

She  was  immediately  conveyed  to  the  air, 
and,  on  cutting  the  lace  of  her  stays,  lady 
Chatterton  saw  a  small  shagreen  case,  hung 
pendant  from  her  neck  by  a  riband.  A  sud- 
den irresistible  impulse  led  her  to  open  it, 
when  the  portraits  Of  George  Littleton  and 
lady  Mary  struck  her  sight.  She  looked 
again  on  the  young  woman,  who  was  now 
just  recovering,  and  instantly,  in  her  reani- 
mated countenance,  recognised  the  features 
of  Rebecca. 

The  debt,  for  which  her  mother  had  been 
thrown  into  prison,  was  fifteen  pounds,  which 


REBECCA.  28 i 

was  contracted  with  the  apothecary  during 
her  and  Rebecca's  illness.  Lady  Chatter- 
ton  soon  contrived  to  have  it  discharged,  and 
poor  Mrs  Serlc,  being  tenderly  informed  of 
her  liberation,  was  carefully  placed  in  a  car- 
riage, her  daughter  on  one  side,  and  her  de- 
liverer on  the  other,  who  supported  her  as 
the  coach  moved  slowly  towards  St  Alban 
Street;  nor  ever  did  conqueror,  in  his  trium- 
phal car,  feel  more  exulting  sensations  than 
did  her  ladyship  when  she  led  the  grateful, 
trembling  Rebecca  into  her  own  house,  saw 
her  mother  laid  in  a  comfortable  bed,  and 
heard  from  a  physician,  that  tender  atten- 
tion and  peace  of  mind  would  be  more  effi- 
cacious towards  her  restoration  than  medi- 
cine. He  also  ordered  Rebecca  to  be  im- 
mediately put  to  bed,  and  take  some  wine 
and  water,  with  a  few  drops  of  laudanum  in 
it,  as  the  agitation  of  her  spirits  and  sudden 
change  of  fortune  had  occasioned  a  wildness 
in  her  looks,  and  an  incoherence  in  her  dis- 
course, that  rather  alarmed  him.  Lady 
Chatterton  saw  the  prescription  administer- 
ed, and  then  descended  to  meet  the  guests 
in  the  dining-parlor,  while  the  exhausted 
Rebecca  sunk  into  a  more  peaceful  slumber 
than  she  had  enjoyed  for  many  months. 
2*4* 


282  REBECCA. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


The  parly  assembled  in  the  dining-parlor, 
lord  and  lady  Chatterton,  the  Savages,  Mr 
Clayton,  George  Littleton  and  his  father. 

It  was  a  tender,  difficult  task  to  inform 
these  affectionate  relations  that  Rebecca  was 
found,  yet  it  was  a  task  her  ladyship's  gen- 
erous heart  burned  to  execute.  Gently,  and 
by  degrees,  she  made  the  interesting  discov- 
ery ;  but  when  George  knew  his  Rebecca 
was  really  in  the  house,  it  was  impossible  to 
prevent  his  flying  to  the' apartment  that  con- 
tained her;  Mr  Littleton  followed.  They 
entered  the  chamber  with  cautious  step — 
George  softly  drew  aside  the  curtain.  She 
was  in  a  profound  sleep.  He  stood  gazing 
with  a  look  of  joy,  mingled  with  tender  pity, 
on  her  altered  countenance.  Mr  Littleton 
sunk  on  a  chair  by  the  bed-side.  'Oh!  my 
poor  suffering  girl,'  said  he,  '  how  art  thou 
changed  !'  His  head  fell  on  the  pillow  beside 
her,  and  tears  rushed  down  his  venerable 
countenance. 

Rebecca  moved,  the  nurse  forced  George 
from  her  bed-side.  She  opened  her  eyes; 
the  power  of  recollection  seemed,  for  a  time, 
suspended.     She  looked    wildly  round  her. 

'Where  is  my  mother?'  said  she,  'I  will 
not   be  taken  from   her.     If  she  must  die  in 


REBECCA.  283 

prison,  I  will  die  with  her.1    She  raised  her- 
self in  bed,  and  saw  her  uncle. 

'  Rebecca,'  said  he,  in  an  accent  of  tender- 
ness, '  have  you  forgotten  me,  my  dear?' 

'  Oh  !  no,  my  beloved  uncle.'  said  she,  her 
head  dropping  on  his  shoulder.  'Oh,  no! 
How  long  have  you  been  in  England  ?'  Then 
pausing  a  moment,  '  But  what  have  they 
done  with  my  mother?' 

1  She  is  safe  my  love;  endeavor  to  recol- 
lect yourself.  Do  you  not  know  she  came 
with  you  to  this  house?  She  is  in  bed  in  the 
next  room.' 

Rebecca  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  '  I 
am  striving  to  think,'  said  she,  kbut  I  cannot 
remember  where  I  am,  or  how  I  came  here.' 

By  degrees  the  power  of  recollection  re- 
turned, and  every  circumstance  recurred  to 
her  memory.  'I  am  in  the  house  of  lord 
Chattcrton,'  said  she,  '  I  could  have  prefer- 
red any  other.' 

'  But  suppose,  my  dear  girl,  lord  Chatter- 
ton  should  not  be  the  person  you  think  him? 
Suppose  he  should  be  a  man  whom  you  have 
never  seen.' 

She  listened  in  silence,  and  her  uncle,  in 
the  motet  cautious  manner,  informed  her  of 
his  having  found  a  son,  and  that  son  was  the 
man  she  imagined  married  lady  Eleanor 
Harcourt. 

The   relation   was   wonderful.      Rebecca 


204  REBECCA 

could  scarcely  credit  it,  yet,  if  it  were  really 
true,  if  she  were  still  beloved  by  the  man 
whose  image  was  engraven  on  her  heart, 
and,  indeed,  released  from  the  vow  she  had 
so  solemnly  given  her  deceased  benefactress. 
The  rapidity  with  which  these  thoughts  rush- 
ed through  her  brain,  and  the  violent  emo- 
tions of  her  heart,  almost  overpowered  her 
weak  frame.  She  breathed  with  difficulty, 
her  eyes  grew  dim,  the  attendant  perceived 
the  change,  and  giving  her  a  few  drops  in 
some  water  recalled  her  fleeting  spirits. 

'And  where  is  this  new  cousin  of  mine?' 
said  she,  with  a  faint  smile,  when  she  was 
somewhat  recovered,'  methinks  I  should  like 
to  see  him.' 

George's  heart  palpitated  violently.  He 
drew  near  the  bed-side  of  his  beloved,  drop- 
ped on  one  knee  and  cried,  'Oh!  my  Re- 
becca, behold  me  here  !' 

A  smile  of  ineffable  pleasure  beamed  over 
the  countenance  of  Rebecca  while  she  ex- 
tended her  hand  towards  her  lover.  He 
took  it  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  The  en- 
suing scene  can  be  easily  imagined  by  the 
feeling  heart,  and  to  those  devoid  of  sensi- 
bility, the  description  would  be  insipid;  we 
will,  therefore,  pass  it  over  in  silence. 

Peace  being  now  restored  to  the  bosom 
of  our  heroine,  her  health,  her  vivacity  and 
bloom,  rapidly  returned.      Her  mother  too, 


REBECCA.  285 

recovered  a  sufficient  degree  of  health  to 
enable  her  to  participate  in  her  daughter's 
happiness. 

An  early  day  was  named  for  the  union 
of  George  and  Rebecca,  previous  to  which 
lord  Chatter  ton  procured  the  old  lieuten- 
ant to  be  superannuated,  and  a  handsome 
pension  was  given  him  in  return  for  his  long 
and  faithful  services;  a  lucrative  post  was 
also  procured  for  George  Littleton,  but  he 
requested  leave  to  transfer  it  to  young  Sav- 
age. 

'J  must  beseech  your  lordship  to  pardon 
me,'  said  George,  'but  that  young  gentle- 
man has  no  means,  whatever,  of  supporting 
bis  truly  amiable  mother  and  sister.  For 
my  own  part,  though  in  the  early  part  of 
life  accustomed  to  all  the  indulgcncies  which 
the  possession  of  an  affluent  fortune  could 
bring.  I  have  long  been  convinced,  that 
abundance  of  riches  cannot  secure  happi- 
ness. Possessed  of  my  beloved  Rebecca, 
whose  humble  spirit  will  enjoy  most  felici- 
ty in  the  quiet,  undisturbed  walks  of  life, 
beholding  my  father  possessed  of  sufficient 
to  make  his  setting  sun  serene  and  unclou- 
ded, what  should  1  desire  more?  We  will 
retire  into  Berkshire  to  the  estate  which 
you  have  so  generously  settled  on  my  fam- 
ily, and  if  we  can  once  a  year  boast  of  the 
honor   of  a  visit    from    you    and   your  ac- 


236  REBECCA. 

complished   lady,  I   shall   certainly  be   the 
happiest  mortal  breathing.' 

His  lordship  was  exceedingly  gratified 
with  George's  frankness;  and  accordingly 
the  place  uas  given  to  young  Savage,  who 
was  equally  capable  of  discharging  all  the 
duties  incumbent  upon  him  with  honor  and 
integrity. 

Lady  Chatterton  had,  with  her  lord's  un- 
reserved approbation,  ordered  a  settlement 
to  he  made  on  Rebecca  of  two  thousand 
pounds,  which  sum  his  lordship  supplied 
and  placed  in  the  funds  for  her  own  partic- 
ular use. 

The  day  afier  the  union  took  place,  Re- 
becca, George,  Mr  Littleton,  and  Mrs  Scrle 
took  a  most  affectionate  leave  of  their  gen- 
erous and  warm-hearted  friends  in  St  Al- 
ban  Street,  and  departed  for  Berkshire. — 
The  situation  was  beautiful  almost  beyond 
description,  and  the  neat  cottage-like  ap- 
pearance of  the  house,  together  with  the 
beautiful  simplicity  of  the  furniture,  affor- 
ded Rebecca  the  most  pleasurable  sensa- 
tions. No  very  considerable  length  of  time 
elapsed  before  she  was  visited  by  the  neigh- 
boring gentry,  among  whom,  what  was  her 
surprise  to  see  lady  Wintcrlon,  whose  sa- 
ble habiliments  denoted  that  she  was  at  last 
emancipated  from  that  worst  of  all  slavery, 
wedlock,  with  the  man,  for  whom  she  could 
have  no  love. 


REBECCA.  237 

She  informed  our  heroine,  that  her  health 
was  so  impaired  by  vexation,  and  the  ef- 
fects of  the  wound  she  had  received,  that 
her  life  was  thought  to  have  been  in  immi- 
nent danger.  Change  of  air  was  prescribed 
by  her  physicians,  and  her  lord  had  her  re- 
moved to  a  small  estate  which  he  possessed 
in  Berkshire  ;  also,  that  she  had  derived 
considerable  benefit  from  the  change,  but 
from  the  time  of  their  leaving  town  her 
lord's  health  had  declined;  he  had  been 
subject  to  an  asthmatic  complaint,  which 
latterly  increased  upon  him,  and  had  ter- 
minated his  life  about  two  months  before 
Rebecca's  arrival  in  the  country. 

Lady  Winterton  was  certainly  possessed 
of  too  much  delicacy  in  her  present  circum- 
stances to  mention  the  name  of  Savage.  It 
is  true  she  had  been  imprudent,  but  never 
criminal.  Sickness  had  moderated  the  ex- 
treme vivacity  of  her  disposition,  and  led 
her  to  reflect.  She  could  not  avoid  wish- 
ing to  hear  of  him,  or  learn  the  reason  why, 
from  the  fatal  evening  when  they  met  at 
Cheswick,  he  had  never  attempted  to  write 
to  or  see  her.  She  was  entirely  ignorant  of 
his  fate^from  that  time,  yet  she  kept  those 
wishes  concealed. 

Lord  and  Lady  Ossiter  continued  on  the 
continent,  where,  immersed  in  vice  and  dis- 
sipation, his  lordship  fell  a  victim  to  intem- 
perance, and  her  ladyship   became  notori- 


288  REBECCA. 

ous  for  her  gallantry;  forgetful  of  the  sa- 
cred name  of  mother,  she  gave  the  reins  to 
folly,  and  publicly  defied  the  laws  of  virtue 
and  religion. 

Though  Rebecca,  from  the  variegated 
scenes  through  which  she  had  passed,  had 
purchased  a  most  complete  knowledge  of 
the  world,  yet  it  had  not  hardened  her  heart 
or  rendered  her  callous  to  the  calls  of  mis- 
ery;  her  prudence  in  her  family  concerns 
enabled  her  ever  to  have  a  morsel  for  the 
hungry,  and  a  garment  to  throw  over  the 
destitute  orphan.  When  the  poor  saw  her, 
they  blessed  her — infant  lips  set  forth  her 
praises — aged  knees  bent  for  her  before  the 
Throne  of  Grace.  She  cheered  the  decli- 
ning years  of  her  mother  and  uncle — they 
called  down  blessings  on  her  head. 

Her  husband  adored  her;  the  smile  of 
content  dimpled  on  her  cheek,  and  her  dwel- 
ling was  the  mansion  of  peace. 


THE    END. 


REBECCA; 


li  THE    FH.LE    DF.    C  !'  X  &B11&   ! 


